


Baker Street: Part III

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 366 [14]
Category: Mysterious Mr. Quin - Agatha Christie, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, Supernatural, The Dukes of Hazzard (TV)
Genre: 221B Baker Street, American Civil War, Army, Attempted Murder, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Bacon, Banking, Boats and Ships, Buckinghamshire, Codes & Ciphers, Curses, Danger, Deception, Democracy, Disguise, Egypt, England (Country), Escape, F/M, Family, Fan-fiction, Friendship, Gay Sex, Illegitimacy, Inheritance, Jewelry, Johnlock - Freeform, Justice, Kidnapping, Lawyers, London, Love, M/M, Male Prostitution, Mercy Killing, Middlesex, Minor Character Death, Murder, Native American Character(s), Nobility, Nottinghamshire, Nursery Rhyme References, Organized Crime, Poison, Police, Politics, Romance, Sleeping Together, Slow Burn, Surprises, Surrey, Theft, Trains, Treasure Hunting, Victorian, Wiltshire, Yorkshire, character injury, essex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:01:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 82,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23463637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: The Complete Cases Of Sherlock Holmes And John Watson. All 366 cases plus assorted interludes, hiatuses, codas &c.1888. Having been Abroad for so long, Sherlock finds himself inundated with work upon his return. What with plagued professors, accursed ancients, devious diplomats, slippery stockbrokers, infuriating inheritors, bothersome brothers, pernicious politicians and Oriental obfuscations, the great detective is becoming severely stressed – and despite a rest cure that sees the dynamic duo temporarily all at sea over some stolen jewels, there is worse to come. Multi-tailed cats, serial killers, sore losers and bruised batmen are bad enough (though John does get to meet someone Important in his friend's life, or at least sort of meet), but then a face from the past shocks one of them to the core. And to cap it all Sherlock comes close to being killed!
Relationships: Bo Duke & Luke Duke, Inspector Macdonald/OMC, Lucifer/OMC, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Elementary 366 [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1555741
Kudos: 22





	1. Contents

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vignahara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vignahara/gifts), [lyster99](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyster99/gifts).



> This series is completely written and will be updated daily until done.  
> 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contents page.

** 1888 **

**Interlude: Men!**  
by Mrs. Violet Hudson  
_The pistol-packing landlady observes changes in her favourite tenants' relationship_

 **Case 136: The Tragedy Of The Atkinson Brothers**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_Sherlock helps an old friend with a killing_

 **Case 137: The Adventure Of The Hazardous Dukes**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_The great detective stops two good ole boys from being swindled out of an inheritance_

 **Case 138: The Adventure Of The Mummy's Curse**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_John saves Inspector Macdonald's life while Sherlock secures him justice – and more_

 **Case 139: The Darlington Substitution Scandal**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_Murder is afoot, and the duo travel to Yorkshire in order to prevent it_

 **Case 140: The Adventure Of The Arnsworth Inheritance**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_Can Sherlock find a hidden inheritance – and should he even try?_

 **Interlude: All That Glisters**  
by Mr. Neil Stephenson, Esquire  
_A Yorkshire lawyer strikes.... not gold, but definitely a fortune_

 **Interlude: Through A Glass Darkly**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_The consulting detective sees things in an unexpected way_

 **Case 141: The Adventure Of The Stockbroker's Clerk**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_Many people face financial ruin unless Sherlock can find a vanished clerk_

 **Case 142: The Adventure Of The Naval Treaty**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_Who stole the top secret plans – and why have they not sold them?_

 **Case 143: The Adventure Of The Tired Captain**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_John takes Sherlock to an island in the... fog, but trouble is as ever not far behind_

 **Interlude: Away From It All**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_John enjoys some quiet time with his friend_

 **Case 144: The Adventure Of The Crooked Man**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_Sherlock finds the proceeds of a robbery by using a nursery rhyme_

 **Case 145: A Case Of Identity**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_Someone is rapidly killing off members of a rich family, and has to be stopped_

 **Case 146: The Adventure Of The Sore Loser**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_Sherlock makes sure that a client gets rather more justice that they wanted_

 **Interlude: Strike Four!**  
by Mr. Lucifer Garrick, Esquire  
_Lucifer's lover has another emotional crisis to 'work through'_

 **Case 147: Flight Of The Batman**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_Sometimes justice is deadly - and Sherlock gets a shock in the woods_

 **Interlude: Brothers!**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_Sherlock is still wondering about the point (or not) of male siblings_

 **Case 148: The Adventure Of The Deceiving Dundases**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_A face from the past brings shocking news for one of the duo_

 **Case 149: The Adventure Of Mr. Etherege's Mistake**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_One of the deadliest enemies yet takes aim at Sherlock...._

 **Interlude: Jack The Ripper**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_The most infamous non-case that the detective ever undertook_

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	2. Interlude: Men!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1888\. Reflections of a pistol-packing landlady.

_[Narration by Mrs. Violet Hudson]_

Men!

My poor Bill was just as bad, God bless him. Anything to do with feelings or the like, and he would change the subject as quickly as possible or just high-tail it off down the pub. As for those two boys now finally back from Foreign Parts – it was like a contest to see which of them was the more emotionally constipated! 

There was an amusing moment when I went up to welcome them back (I had just missed their return as I had been out for a walk). I could see the doctor's shock when he realized, too late as ever, that I had seen the silver rings they were now wearing, and that from the look which I was giving him he knew that he had better take care of his friend or else the pistol would be coming out. I mean seriously, did they both think that I had been blind all these years? One would have to have been not to have seen that those two had a special bond from the moment they had first got here, if not before.

Jo, being Jo, found it all very amusing and said that she fully expected to see hearts and flowers above them as they went up the stairs to their rooms. I knew more of the world and could see that Things had not got that far as yet, but something had definitely happened between them. Not just the fact that the rigmarole caused by that bloody woman and her accusations was done with, but the way the doctor looked at Mr. Holmes? It was way, way beyond friendship. It was love.

Aww!

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	3. Case 136: The Tragedy Of The Atkinson Brothers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1888\. In their first case after their Grand Tour Sherlock helps out an old college friend, which leads to he and John having their first encounter with a new and rather unpleasant sergeant. Not their last - unfortunately as it turns out, for quite a few people.  
> Mentioned also as the Trincomalee case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Mention of suicide.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

Foreword: This case only became available for publication following a letter I received towards the end of the Great War from a Mr. Jameson Monroe in the United States. Mr. Monroe is the son of Mr. Abraham Monroe and the late Mrs. Lily Monroe (née Atkinson), that lady being the sister of the brothers in this tragic tale. Although for reasons which will become obvious at the end of the story I could not publish it at the time it happened, Mr. Monroe in his letter urged me to do so then since his mother and her remaining brother had then both passed. He also believed - and I concur in that belief - that people today would take a kinder view of the tragic events at 'Trincomalee' than they might have done three decades ago.

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Amongst the many letters waiting for me on our return from our travels was one from the 'Strand' magazine asking when (or if) I would be producing more works concerning 'my good friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes'. I smiled at the reference and looked across at the rogue imbibing coffee like his life depended on it; he was now so much more. I had previously dispatched a _précis_ of our adventure with Mr. James Douglas (The Adventure Of The Greek Interpreter) to the magazine and I now determined to get the actual work finished as soon as possible. Thanks to my friend's generosity I still had two more weeks off from the surgery and resolved to spend them writing.

The first week passed uneventfully apart from the aforementioned 'problems' of Mr. Guilford Holmes which he frankly merited from his mistreatment of my friend, even if this particular comeuppance had been from a rare Sherlockian mi.... very slight error of judgement (he is giving me the kicked puppy look from across the table as I write this, damn the fellow!). Sherlock also received a telegram from his cousin Mr. Garrick which, rather oddly, contained nothing but a lot of exclamation marks. However he seemed pleased enough at it, so I did not ask. My friend seemed content to step back from his work for a while and oftentimes I would catch him looking across at me as I wrote furiously at my table, smiling softly. I was so lucky to have this man in my life and best of all to know that he would always be there. 

I could not know in those happy times that we were to have little more than three years together, before he would be torn from me in the most painful way imaginable.

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At the start of the second week Mrs. Hudson's delicious luncheon was accompanied by a telegram. Sherlock frowned as he read it.

“Not a case already?” I said trying not to sound as if I was complaining (even though I was). “We are barely back through the door!”

“It is from my old tutor back at Tarleton, Inglis Atkinson”, he said, clearly worried at what he was reading. “He says that he knows we are out of the country but he desperately needs my help.”

I had no way of knowing this at the time but a pattern was about to be set in which my friend was to be involved in one case after another without a break. At the time I could only see that this message meant a lot to him, and that he was torn between going to his friend’s aid or staying with me for the rest of my time off. And I remembered the name now; Sherlock had solved a minor matter for him at Cambridge and had always spoken highly of him as both a professor and a friend.

I took a deep breath and forced myself to do the decent thing. Because that was what friends did for each other.

“Friends and family are important to us both”, I said with a forced smile. “Where does this Mr. Atkinson live now? Cambridge?”

I hoped that we were not destined to travel all the way to the Fens and could barely suppress my relief when he answered “St. John’s Wood”. Only a short cab ride away, thank the Lord.

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St. John’s Wood was (and still is) one of the better areas of London and the Atkinsons’ house 'Trincomalee' was in turn in one of its best areas, each house along Abbey Wood Close possessing a set of copious grounds. I felt a little surprised that a mere Cambridge tutor should be able to afford such luxury.

“The family made their money in tea”, Sherlock explained as we walked up the long drive, the cold January wind seeming to pass right through rather than go around me. “On the island of Ceylon in the Indian Ocean, hence the house name. My tutor is a younger twin; his parents died a few years ago and his brother Iain inherited the house. They live there with their sister Lily who is some years younger than them, but she is away visiting the United States at the moment. Iain has been ill of late which was why Inglis took a year off from college.”

The house was a huge place, if compact. The builders had gone for three storeys in a solid block presumably to increase the already sizeable garden still further. Our attentions were immediately drawn to the ominous black wreath on the huge front door. That did not bode well.

A footman admitted us and we were showed into a generous-sized waiting-room. We had not long to wait before he returned and bade us follow. We went to what turned out to be a study and were ushered into the presence of, judging by my friend's smile, Mr. Inglis Atkinson. The man was about forty years of age, average height, slender of build and dressed in mourning-clothes; I thought wryly that he looked more Sherlock's elder brother than any of his real (and far too numerous) ones. Our host's hair was mostly grey and his face was lined with worry; I noted also that he pointedly waited for the maid to withdraw before speaking. I would always remember his first words.

“My dearest friend, my best student”, he said in a low and pleasant voice. “I need your help with a killing.”

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It was some little time later. Sherlock, Mr. Atkinson and I had adjourned to the lounge whence our host had pointedly locked the door. He sat down heavily in one of the large fireside chairs; I thought that he looked both mentally and physically exhausted. His former student sat opposite him and I took a chair at the table. 

“Iain is dead”, Mr. Atkinson said mournfully.

To my surprise Sherlock reached across and took the older man’s hand. My friend was not the most tactile of people except with me, so this gesture was unusual. 

“There are problems arising, or you would not have summoned me”, Sherlock said gently. Our host nodded. 

“He died four days ago”, our host said. He hesitated before continuing: “a burglar broke into his study then entered his bedroom. He was shot.”

I felt that there was something distinctly odd about the fellow’s voice. He was describing the death of his twin brother yet his voice seemed almost unnaturally steady. Nor were there any signs of alcohol or drug use to account for that. My sense of unease only increased.

“I think that you had better start right at the beginning”, Sherlock said. “Clearly there is a lot to this story.”

Our host nodded, took a large gulp of his drink and began.

“Iain did a lot of volunteer work for the local community”, he explained, “in and around the Wood. Our father left all the money to him but he trusted – rightly of course – that he would treat me and Lily fairly. Neither of us had to work and as I told you she decided to spend a year in the United States, starting last September. She claimed that it was 'to expand her cultural horizons' but we both knew that she had become enamoured of one Abraham Monroe, a student of mine whom she had chanced to meet when he spent a term at Tarleton. I think that this trip was also what might have been termed a 'trial run', to see if she could cope with life abroad. Iain was ill then as you know, but he insisted on her going. I knew that there was rather more to his illness than he had told her but respected his wishes, although I did insist on taking a year away from Tarleton. I was happy there, and of course I had the best students.”

I smiled inwardly as I remembered student Sherlock at Tarleton, meeting me that second time over two dead bodies whose murderers he had found in a matter of hours. Our second adventure together, now some (ahem!) years in the past. At least he had found a good friend while he was there.

“Iain had wanted me to return to work after Christmas”, our host continued. “He rallied at the end of last year so I had begun to make plans to go back – then this happened!”

Sherlock still had hold of the man’s hands and he now reached forward and gently hugged him. It struck me for some reason at that point that Inglis Atkinson was little more than five years older than his student. I tensed but said nothing.

“Last Friday was when it all happened”, Mr. Atkinson continued, smiling gratefully at his former student. “I had gone to meet some friends; I did not want to go but Iain insisted, even though he was feeling poorly again. I came back as quickly as I could and as a letter had come I took it to my study to read.”

He took a deep breath.

“That was when it must have happened”, he said. “I was there when I heard the shot. I raced up to Iain’s bedroom but whoever had broken in must have locked it; the key was always in the lock. Fortunately two of the footmen came with me and with their help I was able to force the door open….”

“Could you not have used a connecting door from an adjoining room?” Sherlock asked. The man blushed.

“In the heat of the moment I did not think of that”, he said. “Paul and Edward were only seconds behind me as I mounted the stairs and we got the door open with our second charge, so we were delayed by no more than half a minute at most. We found poor Iain dead, a single bullet-wound to the head.”

“So the burglar shot him?” I asked.

“Indeed”, our host said. “It was a tragedy and I was heartbroken as you can well imagine – but things were about to get so much worse.”

“How could they get worse?” I asked in wonder. Mr. Atkinson hesitated.

“Have either of you heard of Sergeant Adam Bartholomew?” he asked.

Sherlock pursed his lips distastefully.

“Most regrettably _I_ have”, he said coldly. 

I looked at him in surprise. Like me Sherlock did not rate the capital's police service that highly (a couple of cake-detecting sergeants apart!) and there had been particular excrescences like the late and unlamented Inspector Matthew Wright, but open dislike was rare.

“He was a constable under LeStrade when our colleague was at his first station as sergeant, the other side of London”, Sherlock explained. “There were two instances when he was suspected of fabricating evidence to secure convictions and a third when a case that LeStrade had been building against someone collapsed due to a piece of evidence going missing from a police locker. Mr. Bartholomew was suspected in all three cases but nothing could be proven. I suspect that LeStrade arranged his transfer away to get rid of him; the fellow's promotion must have come while we were overseas. I had not however known that the police service was _that_ desperate.”

“He has gotten his teeth into poor Iain’s murder”, Mr. Atkinson said angrily. “He is convinced that it is suicide for some reason. He clearly thinks that if he can prove it as such, it will be a feather in his cap and possibly a stepping-stone to his next promotion.”

“Despite having made the gross and unforgivable error of letting him get this far”, Sherlock said firmly, “the Metropolitan Police Service or at least the London public who pay for them deserve to be spared that particular calamity.”

“Why does he think that?” I asked. “If you do not mind me asking.”

“Not at all, doctor”, our host smiled. “It is I am afraid a pure and simple grudge. Iain worked as a volunteer on the Police Board and he was against Mr. Bartholomew’s promotion. He was outvoted but the fellow very evidently resented anyone not backing him one hundred per cent. It is quite impossible anyway; as I am sure you know a gun fired at close range leaves tell-tale scorch marks and there were none on poor Iain’s body. The doctor who examined him confirmed this, much to the sergeant's displeasure. His own police doctor telling him exactly the same was also not well-received, or so a member of the Board told me.”

“Has he been back here since the day of the murder?” I asked.

“Every day without fail”, our host sighed. 

“Has he called today?” Sherlock asked.

“Not yet. He usually comes between three and four o’clock.”

I glanced at the old grandfather clock ticking sonorously away to itself in the corner of the room. Five minutes to three.

“We must make good use of the time that we have then”, Sherlock said. “Do you know if Sergeant Bartholomew found any traces of a burglar or any signs of forced entry?”

“He made much of the fact that the window to my brother’s room had not been forced”, Mr. Atkinson said. “But there was a window slightly ajar at the end of the corridor so the thief could easily have got through there and passed through the spare room next door.”

I thought that a little odd. The weather since our return had been typically wintery, cold and rainy almost every day so not the sort where one usually opened windows. Although perhaps the maids had been cleaning the house at the time. 

Sherlock thought for a moment.

“We must start with the scene of the crime”, he said. “Will you show it to us, please?”

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The late Mr. Iain Atkinson’s room lay on the second floor and was a typical gentleman’s study. Sherlock frowned when he saw it.

“There was only one shot fired?” he asked.

“I only heard one”, Mr. Atkinson said. “So did the maid who was working more or less beneath the room at the time. Is that important?”

“The killer was an excellent shot, then”, Sherlock muttered. 

For some reason that remark seemed to make our host uncomfortable. I wondered why.

“What time did the killing take place?” my friend asked.

“Four thirty-five”, our host answered promptly. When we both looked at him in surprise he explained, “it was five minutes after I returned; I entered as the clock was striking the half-hour and timed my subsequent actions later.”

Sherlock nodded. 

“What rooms adjoin this one?” he asked. “Both sides, plus above and below.”

“Iain’s study is through there”, Mr. Atkinson said pointing to one side, “and the other side leads as I said to a spare bedroom which although you can see has a door into here is always kept locked. Iain's bedroom is also accessible from the main corridor. The door opposite leads into the study; as you can see it is set in the corner so I doubt that we could have got into the room any quicker that way.”

Sherlock tried the door into the spare bedroom which was indeed locked. He did not waste any time on this room (which I thought a little odd as it was after all the scene of the crime) and instead crossed to the other door which led into a fair-sized study. This lay at a corner of the house, so had two large windows and was much better lit. 

“Below here is my own study which was why I was so sure that the shot came from my brother's bedroom”, Mr. Atkinson said, “That door over there leads up to the attic to which only I have the keys. Iain was hopeless with that sort of thing; he was always forgetting where he had left them.”

“Does the attic have a window?” Sherlock asked. Our host looked surprised.

“No, but there is a skylight through which the roof can be reached”, he said. “Iain had that fitted only a few years back.” 

Sherlock nodded. 

“I presume that the odious Sergeant Bartholomew has examined your brother's bedroom?” he asked. 

“Very thoroughly”, our host said bitterly. _“Three times!”_

“Were you with him each time?” Sherlock asked.

“I refused to leave him here unaccompanied”, the man said stiffly. “Sorry I am to say it but I did not put it past him to start planting evidence. I also kept one of the servants with me as well, just in case. He did not like that at all.”

“Did the sergeant go into either of the adjoining rooms during his searching?”

“No. Although I did tell him what they were.”

Sherlock smiled at that for some reason.

“What lies the other side of the locked spare bedroom?” he asked.

“The corridor with the window that I mentioned earlier”, our host said, “on the opposite side of which is my own bedroom. That faces out on the same side of the house as does my brother's bedroom. As you can see we are at a corner here; that window has an excellent view of the back garden.”

“I have one other question”, Sherlock said, “then I must begin to put in place certain arrangements. Your late brother’s valet – can he be trusted?”

Our host look surprised at the question as was I, but he answered readily enough.

“I would trust Phillips with my life”, he said firmly. “He is staying on here until I can find him alternative employment, fortunately my own valet had a week's holiday due and I doubled that in the circumstances. I would never force a good servant out and I have promised him that I will find him something in Iain's memory. A fellow from a local employment agency is coming round the day after tomorrow and I have also put out one or two inquiries myself.”

Sherlock smiled and took him by the hand.

“Stay strong, my friend”, he said. “We shall have you out of your own dark vale before too long.”

I wondered what he had meant by that.

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It was not quite a quarter past three but we were not to be spared a meeting with Sergeant Adam Bartholomew who arrived just as we were leaving. He was a tall blond fellow in his early thirties; I might have termed him handsome had I not known of his character. He glared at us when Mr. Atkinson said goodbye to us by name and I was glad to escape that look.

Sherlock surprised me by staying in 221B that evening although he did send out several messages and seemed pleased when the replies came back. We enjoyed Mrs. Hudson’s sumptuous repast and I was again surprised when he suggested an early night. The only downside was that he seemed to be developing a cold and insisted that we sleep apart until it had passed as he did not wish me to get infected. But I was still tired from the exertions of our European adventures and was glad to turn in, safe in the knowledge we were both under the same roof in England. 

All together now. I really, really should have known better.

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Sherlock was most definitely not a morning person. As I have said before, had I ever felt the urge to end it all I would probably need only to have made the mistake of standing between him and his first coffee of the day. But on the morning after our trip to St. John’s Wood he emerged a full hour later than usual and seemed, incredibly, even more dishevelled than usual. Fortunately the coffee along with some (all) of my bacon worked their usual magic and he was back to his usual self by luncheon, so the two of us set off back to 'Trincomalee' around two o’clock. I was surprised and not a little annoyed to find Sergeant Bartholomew waiting for us.

“Mr. Holmes, Doctor”, he said acidly. 

Sherlock ignored him and turned to Mr. Atkinson. 

“I am expecting a witness to come to the house shortly”, he said. “He will be a workman, dressed most probably in overalls. Can you please ensure that whoever lets him in shows him straight to us?”

“A witness to the killing?” Mr. Atkinson asked, clearly surprised.

“No”, Sherlock smiled. “But he is important. He unwittingly provided an item that was used in the crime.”

The sergeant looked at him dubiously but said nothing. Sherlock led the way around to the back of the house, where the victim's window was.

“Let us begin”, Sherlock said firmly. “I have to say sergeant, that I am very disappointed in your investigatory acumen of which I had heard so much from my dear friend Sergeant LeStrade. You missed several blindingly obvious clues which prove indubitably that a burglary was attempted on this property.”

The sergeant spluttered.

“Sir!” he protested.

“I presume that you checked for marks of forced entry into the house?” Sherlock asked. 

“I did”, the policeman said firmly. “There were none, although I suppose that he could have gotten in through the open window there.”

Sherlock smiled and shook his head at the fellow, which only seemed to annoy him more.

“A burglar would have to have been extremely foolish to have tried to effect an entry through _that_ window”, he said condescendingly. “It is on the side of the house where the servants’ entrance is, as is the corridor window along from it. Even though the man was in disguise, the fewer people who saw him the better.”

“How can you be so sure that he was in disguise?” the policeman snorted disbelievingly. Sherlock smiled knowingly.

“Elementary”, he scoffed and I detected a much harsher tone than the one he usually used to explain his reasoning at times like these. “Because Phillips, the late Mr. Iain Atkinson’s valet, told an untruth.”

“I told you that Phillips is as honest as the day is long!” Mr. Atkinson said defensively. Sherlock placed a comforting hand on his former tutor’s arm.

“I did not mean to imply that he lied _knowingly_ ”, he said soothingly. “When asked if he had seen any strangers outside that day, he said no. Once I had examined the matter I remembered something that had happened at the case that Watson and I undertook back in Tarleton so I went and asked him the same question in a slightly different way, strongly suspecting that it would elicit a different answer. Which it indeed did.”

“That answer was?” the sergeant sniffed. Sherlock ignored him and pointed up the window. 

“Even if he were lucky enough to avoid the servants, a man entering a window during daylight hours would be very likely to draw attention to himself”, Sherlock said. “Being a second-floor window meant that it was visible from at least two of the houses nearby despite all these trees. The window was therefore not the means of access. Instead the man simply placed a ladder up the side of the house and clambered up onto the roof.”

“He would still have been seen _if_ he ever existed!” the sergeant snorted. “Unless he was the Invisible Man!”

“In a way, he was”, Sherlock smiled.

We were interrupted at that moment by the arrival of the butler who was followed by a fellow in faded but still garish plum-coloured overalls. They were emblazoned with a faded logo for the ‘East Middlesex Window-Cleaning Corporation’. Sherlock smiled at the newcomer.

“Alfred”, he said, reading the man’s name-badge. “Please thank your employer for sparing you.”

The tall man nodded but said nothing, twisting his cap nervously.

“Please can you confirm for these gentlemen what happened at your depot early last week”, Sherlock said.

“Went into work as usual last Saturday and the place had been turned over”, the fellow said. “The only thing missing was my overalls, kept in the general store. Mr. Franks was good though; he let me borrow a spare set.”

“Nothing else was taken?” Sherlock asked.

“They tried to break into the office but Fred, the local copper, came along and nearly caught the bastards. Sorry sirs.”

Sherlock thanked the fellow and handed him a coin, then looked at the three of us as if that explained everything. 

“I do not get it”, I said.

“The burglar was not invisible _per se_ ”, Sherlock explained. “But when I asked Phillips if he saw _anyone at all_ outside and not just a stranger, he said ‘only the man cleaning the windows’.”

I gasped.

“The burglar was disguised as a _window-cleaner!”_ I exclaimed. “That is brilliant!”

“A perfect disguise”, Sherlock said. “The servants would not likely question him and the brothers would each assume that the other had arranged his call. Even if someone chanced to see him passing through the skylight, they would assume that that was just part of his job and that he was cleaning it. Come!”

He swept back into the house and we followed in his wake, the sergeant still looking dubious. Up the stairs Sherlock went not to the bedroom where the body had been found but the study next door, where he waited patiently for Mr. Atkinson to produce a key.

“Of course sergeant you did check _this_ room”, Sherlock said matter-of-factly.

The sergeant reddened somewhat.

“I did not think it pertinent to my inquiries”, he muttered.

Sherlock gave him a heavy look but said nothing. Instead he turned to our host.

“This room has been untouched since that day?” he asked.

“Apart from when I showed you round, yes”, Mr. Atkinson said. “I gave strict instructions for the staff to avoid all three rooms, and I have kept the keys.”

Sherlock nodded and entered the room. He walked across to the door to the attic and opened it, gesturing for us to come and look.”

“Tell me what you see, gentlemen”, he said.

“I do not see anything”, the sergeant said impatiently. “Mr. Holmes....”

“That is your trouble”, Sherlock said sharply. “You look only for what is there, and in so doing miss what is not there but should be.”

“Dust!” I burst out. Sherlock nodded, clearly pleased at my answer.

“This stairway to heaven has not been used for months, yet it has recently been swept”, he said. “Sergeant, if you would care to ascend I would wager that you will find that the skylight which we know is rarely used has been opened recently, as the mechanism will work smoothly.”

The sergeant gave him a look that was a borderline glare but went up the narrow stairs, having to bend so to do. A moment later he came down again.

“Someone's been up there right enough”, he admitted obviously unwillingly. “Size six shoes by the look of the prints, seven at most.”

He stared hopefully at our host's shoes which were at least a size ten, and I caught the subsequent disappointment in his face. I did not try to hide my smirk.

“Our burglar enters this room via the skylight”, Sherlock explained. “No servant is going to have the time to walk the whole way around the house to find why the window-cleaner is not by his ladder, after all. He is easily able to pick the lock to the study but he then makes the mistake of entering the adjoining bedroom.”

Sherlock beckoned us all to a point near the bedroom door, then pointed to the floor. I did not see anything at first but then I could just make out a few grains of sand.

“The burglar clearly works or lives in or near an area where there is a sandy surface”, he said. “You will note that there is a faint trail of sand between the attic door and the bedroom door. All I can tell you about our killer is that he is approximately five foot eight inches tall, at least thirty-five years of age, not particularly vain, has small feet and is dark-haired.”

“Come on Mr. Holmes!” the sergeant protested. “There is no way that you could know all that!”

Sherlock stared at him. The man visibly quailed.

“If you had done your job _properly_ , sir, then all this inane speculation about suicide might have been averted!” he said sharply. “Behold!”

He pointed to an old-fashioned hanging-curtain pulled back next by the door.

“Two human hairs”, he said. “The burglar stood here, most probably listening for anyone in the next room. He must have been of the stated height for the hairs to have caught at that point; mine would catch four inches higher. One is dark brown or black and the other is grey, so he was in the process of going grey which denotes his likely age as well as the fact that he does not dye his hair, hence a lack of vanity. Unfortunately Mr. Iain Atkinson must have been dozing because the burglar then entered, having thought that the coast was clear.”

He span round to face the sergeant, who took a step back from him.

“I have to say, sergeant”, he said sharply, “that I am strongly minded to speak to your superiors about what you have put this poor gentleman through over the unhappy killing of his dear brother. Indeed I shall be encouraging him to file a formal complaint against you. You work has been both shoddy and unprofessional. I think it would be best if you were to leave.”

The sergeant blushed again, mumbled his excuses and beat a hasty retreat. I waited until he was gone before turning to congratulate my friend.

“That was brilliant!” I smiled. “I do hope that I shall get to write about it soon.”

To my surprise he blushed and looked awkwardly at our host.

“I very much doubt it”, he said. “'Great Detective Covers Up Murder-Suicide' would probably shock our gentle readers somewhat.”

I stared at him in shock.

“What do you mean?” I asked. Sherlock turned to his host. 

“I am so sorry”, he said. 

Mr. Atkinson hung his head. I stared between the two men. _What on earth was going on?_

“I should have known”, our host muttered. He glanced up and my friend was smiling slightly at him. “Thank you, my friend.”

Sherlock shook his hand and indicated that we should leave. I scuttled after him.

“What was that all about?” I demanded.

“Mr. Inglis Atkinson shot his brother”, he said as we walked away from the house. I promptly fell over my feet.

“What?” I squawked from my undignified position on the gravelled driveway. He helped me up.

“Last night I went back to the house and broke in myself”, he said. “I searched the victim's room and found exactly what I had feared I would find.”

“Which was?” I asked.

“A letter concerning his appointment with a Doctor Feldspar, in Harley Street.”

I was shocked into silence. I knew enough of that great thoroughfare to know that the renowned Doctor Wilberforce Feldspar only dealt with one type of patient - those suffering from a terminal illness.

“The decline would have been very painful and the poor fellow would have suffered for years as he was already suffering”, he explained. “Neither he nor his brother could bear that so they came up with a solution. They arranged for their sister to decamp to the United States so she would avoid any involvement in their scheme. Mr. Iain Atkinson spent a few weeks placing his affairs in order and then to his suicide that would be made to look like murder. He would be shot by a 'burglar' who would then flee.”

“But his brother was downstairs when the shot occurred”, I objected. Sherlock shook his head.

“He was downstairs _when a shot was heard_ ”, he corrected. “I would wager that poison was the actual means of death, something that was quick and deadly. That was most likely done before Inglis left and he then shot his dead brother using some sort of cloth to suppress the noise. There was likely some sort of small explosive device set up in the next room which was of course ignored in the confusion especially as Inglis was proclaiming that the shot had definitely come from his brother's room. He was excellent at chemistry at Tarleton so doubtless had some way to trigger what sounded like the fatal shot when he was clearly downstairs and could have his servants as witnesses. The police doctor would not look for poison because after all, the victim had very clearly been shot in such a way as to cause death.”

“But why did Iain Atkinson not just take his own life?” I asked. “Why drag his poor brother into this?”

He looked at me pointedly,

“Because as we know from previous cases, our modern society has not yet progressed beyond considering suicide a mortal sin.”

I stared at him for a moment.

“You planted those clues”, I said slowly. “The hairs, the sand, the forced skylight, the footprint. The window-cleaner?”

“I helped clear up a small matter for his employer some years back”, he said. “In my line of business I suspected I might have need of his help in a case like this so I extracted a promise of aid rather than payment. Alfred is his son and one of the managers, so he was as you say 'in on it'.”

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Postscriptum: I trust that my readers can now see the other reason why this case did not see the light of day while Mr. Inglis Atkinson and his sister were alive. The stain on a family's reputation from a suicide was then still a severe one, although not as bad as say that of a traitorous grandfather or a set of false accusations concerning sexual assault. I more than most could relate to poor Mr. Inglis Atkinson, who killed and yet was no murderer. I am sure that now that he is in Heaven, he and his brother are finally at peace.

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	4. Case 137: The Adventure Of The Hazardous Dukes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1888\. Sadly some people are wont to suffer life's slings and arrows more than others, although when those slings and arrows are hitting the likes of Mr. Randall Holmes, perhaps not THAT sadly. Sherlock grabs hold of the right end of the stick – get your mind out of the gutter! - and ensures a happy ending for two good ole boys.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

It was good to be back in London Town and especially good to be in 221B where I awoke every morning to the man I loved beside me, a man I loved even when he remarked that I was perhaps not quite at my best first thing in the morning. More importantly, one who I knew would give me (at least) half his bacon at breakfast yet who still looked at me as if he could not quite believe that we were together. I loved him so much that some days I almost felt inclined to let him keep his ba.....

No. I was not that far gone (yet).

The only small downside was that I felt somewhat guilty when I worked my way through the many letters that had come during our Grand Tour, even though that trip had been necessitated by the actions of the foul Mrs. Beddowes-Griffin who I had since learned had quitted the country. I had mentioned to my friend Gregor Kuznetsov about how she and her lawyer had treated John, and I somehow suspect it was not a coincidence that shortly after that conversation, she and her blackguard of a lawyer Mr. Gromell had been kidnapped and taken them all the way to the Russian Steppes, where they had disappeared from view. 

By 'shortly after', I mean 'within forty minutes'. The modern telegraphic system is a wonderful thing at times!

I had of course been pleased to help out my old friend Iain Atkinson even if it did involve some small element of criminality on my part, but I still fretted over all those people who I could have helped but had not been there for. Watson still had some time off before he would have to resume his work at the surgery and he had resolved to spend as much of it as possible writing. I had hoped to enjoy some time alone with him as a result but alas! it was not to be. For just two days after our return from St. John's Wood a most curious case was brought to my attention.

On the intervening day however we had a happy event when we caught up with an old friend. The reader may remember Constable Valiant LeStrade, nephew to The Great Cake-Detector Of Old London Town (Mark One) as Watson called LeStrade (I would like to have inserted an 'unfairly' in there but in all conscience I could not). During our absence LeStrade's superior Inspector Macdonald had very kindly alerted him to a vacancy for sergeant in his old constabulary up in Cumberland and Westmorland. The constable had duly applied for and obtained the post which was based in the town of Kirkby Stephen, where we would as it happened meet him in the not too distant future. Also the new sergeant's wife Jane, whom he had married the previous summer not long after the Reigate case, had just provided him with his first son Tristram – and his second son Torre. John and I were honoured when the boys' grandfather asked us (the second baking day after our return, by some _amazing_ coincidence) if we might each become godparents to one of the twins. John may have shed a tear at that, but it goes without saying that it was a manly tear.

I got a suspicious look for some reason when I mentioned that to John. How odd.

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It was the very next day and another cold winter's morn when we had a welcome visitor to Baker Street, my stepbrother Campbell. It was the first time I had seen him since our return and one look from him made clear that the huge window out onto the street was not the only thing in the vicinity that was completely transparent. He smiled at the evident change in our relationship but said nothing, for which I was intensely grateful. Although he really could have toned down that smirk a notch or two; I could not abide people who smirked too much. I had gotten an odd look from John when I had said that to him, too.

“I have a rather curious matter that has arisen with two of my boys”, he said gravely. “Alan and I have reason to suspect that they are being cheated out of an inheritance, and we would be grateful if you could investigate.”

“Of course”, I said. “Who is it, pray?”

“The Duke boys, Bo and Luke.”

I knew those two young Southern gentlemen who had arrived in England some two years back, curiously just days after we had had our own Southern adventure with Mr. Robert Lee. I had kept a watchful eye on the latter and knew that he had passed during our Continental absence without suffering any further problems from either the British or American governments; it was sad that I had had to do that but my own experience of large institutions had made it necessary. 

Beauregard and Lucas Duke were cousins although they looked nothing like each other; both were affable, generous-hearted fellows and Watson had treated Beauregard one time with his cousin along as well. Like the Selkirk twins Balin and Balan, they did not like being apart from each other, although they were not as my mother so strangely put it, 'together together'.

It was frankly a wonder of the first order that I had turned out so normal!

“The Dukes of Hazard”, John said off-handedly. 

I looked at him curiously.

“Why do you say that?” I asked.

He flushed bright red. Campbell sniggered.

“They have this old Southern wheel of fortune thing in their room and they always work together”, he explained. “Except instead of numbers it has what might best be termed different options for.....”

I gave him such a look! So that was where Mother had gotten her idea for 'Casino Royale'; yet another horror inspired by this villain. Damnation, even the relatives that I liked were terrible!

“No details!” I said firmly. _”Or no investigation!”_

My stepbrother limited himself to another annoying smirk, which was bad enough.

“What is the problem with the boys?” John asked.

“Mr. Lee, whom you assisted in a case last year, was as I am sure you remember often in poor health”, Campbell said. “Not long before he passed, he came to London looking for someone from his homeland to take his body back home when the time came, and to make sure that it was buried in his native Virginia. He did not of course use our services but he chanced to meet Luke in his 'regular' job at the restaurant, and I suppose he thought that as one of his own he could be trusted. He died last autumn and had made all the arrangements for the boys to lay him to rest in his home town, a small place called McClure on the far side of the state. He paid them double what they would normally make for three months and on top of all their expenses, which was very generous of him.”

“They did not receive his payment?” I asked.

“He paid in advance”, Campbell said, “thankfully as it turned out. No, the problem came when they got back a couple of weeks ago. Mr. Lee had said that he had also left the boys something but his lawyer, a nasty piece of work called Mr. Elwood Grey, told them that someone was contesting the will and nothing could be done until that was all sort...”

He stopped, noting my sudden change of expression.

“You know this fellow?” he asked.

“I heartily wish that I did not!” I said tersely. “He is the legal representative for the American Embassy here in London and as such has diplomatic immunity. He has been involved in several rather questionable acts but we cannot touch the fellow without starting an international incident.”

“I could always arrange for some of the boys to 'bump into him' in a dark alley?” he grinned.

I was sorely tempted, but no. At least not yet. And John could really stop nodding enthusiastically like that; the bastard kept asking me if the assassin Mrs. Kyndley was still offering that discount on Randall's 'direct removal'! As if I would ever..... maybe not just now.

“Did he offer any details as to who is challenging the will?” I asked, dragging my mind away from some Very Happy Thoughts.

“One of Mr. Lee's great-nieces”, Campbell said. “A woman called Mrs. Fremont. She is claiming that he was not of sound mind when he disinherited her and the other relatives, although from what Bo and Luke said the only thing that surprised me is that he did not shoot the lot of them before leaving America; four thousand miles was probably the bare minimum distance where they were concerned! None of his surviving relatives were Southern, you see, and I suppose that he did not trust them not to lay him to rest in the North. This Mrs. Fremont also has a supporter in one of the late Mr. Lee's neighbours, one Mr. Hogg, who had been keeping a diary of his 'odd behaviour'.”

The unpleasant personage opposite who had been so grievously offended by the sight of another state's flag, I remembered. A man whom the assassin Mrs. Kyndley had also offered to 'directly remove', if only for his terrible dress sense. Again I was sorely tempted but... we would see.

John was becoming a bad influence on me. I glared at the villain, and he looked puzzled for some reason.

“What did the late Mr. Lee's estate consist of, do we know?” I asked.

“The house of course, and the boys both thought he was rolling in it”, Campbell said. “But the lawyer said that nothing can be finalized until this challenge is dealt with, one way or another.”

I thought back to Mr. Lee. He had been a clever gentleman for all his ill-health and I did not doubt that he would have foreseen something like this happening. He could easily have employed his own lawyer rather than relying on the sub-human excrescence that was Mr. Elwood Grey, whose infamy he must surely have been aware of as an American living in England. Something did not add up here.

“I will need to borrow Beauregard and Lucas for the day”, I said. “I will pay a full day's rates of course, although as is it for their Southern friend I am sure that they would do it for nothing if asked. They are both good boys.”

I could feel John tense across the room and smiled to myself. Beauregard Duke in particular was a handsome muscular Adonis, so it was very fortunate that my friend was not the sort of person who ever got jealous in any way, shape or form.

John was grinding his teeth for some reason. Interesting.

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John was still very clearly not jealous when the Duke boys met us at Victoria Station the following day. I had very fairly told Campbell to warn them that there would be an element of criminality in our day out but apparently that had not deterred them. Out of the 'Southern' clothing that they wore around the molly-house they both looked like ordinary Victorian gentlemen although Lucas's innate seriousness and Beauregard's more bubbly personality both shone through the veneers of respectability.

“What might we be looking for, sir?” Beauregard asked, looking at me intently. His blond curly hair made him look a decade younger than his cousin, although I knew that the age gap was less than two years. I could sense John's quiet annoyance at what he clearly perceived as a rival for my affections but I did not smirk. 

I did not smirk. I may however have smiled slightly.

“I have a feeling that your friend Mr. Lee may have concealed something of import in his house”, I said. “Most likely a document of some sort.”

“Wouldn't it be locked, sir?” Lucas asked. Neither fellow had much of a Southern accent in their normal conversation but I knew because Beauregard had demonstrated it that time John had treated him that they could 'turn it on' when they wanted. Much like most of Campbell's 'boys'.

“A locked door does not a Sherlock keep out.” John snorted.

We purchased four tickets to Smitham and boarded our train, waiting for its departure.

“Were there any problems with fulfilling Mr. Lee's last requests?” I asked once we were on our way.

“No sir, he'd arranged everything”, Lucas said. “It was difficult to get to the place right up in the hills the far side of the state as it was, but it was a beautiful area. The nearest town as you'd call it here was nigh on thirty miles away. He'd paid for our tickets and transport, the plot and all.”

“He asked to be fitted out in his old grey uniform”, Beauregard said. “As you can guess that had to be done once we were there what with the way things are now, but folks around McClure were very understanding.”

I thought that rather odd. Despite the late Mr. Lee sharing his name with the Confederacy's greatest general, I knew that he had had no military background of his own. Although given the still recent war, perhaps he had had some other involvement in the conflict.

“Don't forget the stick”, Lucas said.

John and I both looked at him in confusion.

“What 'stick'?” I asked.

“He had some sort of military stick”, Beauregard said. “A baton, he called it, all polish and engraved. He'd set aside some money for Cooter – Mr. Davenport, who lives near the churchyard – to tend his grave, and to break the baton in half on the first anniversary of the surrender to happen after his death.”

I smiled at that. I was beginning to see how this whole thing had been done now.

“What is he like, this Mr. Davenport?” I asked.

“He was an old servant from when Mr. Lee had had the big house in the area”, Lucas said. “Rough guy but good-hearted; he'll keep things right for the old gentleman. Mr. Lee left him a small sum for himself as well.”

“No good deed goes unrewarded”, I smiled. “Let us hope that we can find something in Mr. Lee's house that will ensure your friend's last wishes are honoured.”

“Bad thing about this relative of his”, Lucas sighed.

“You mean the imaginary relative?” I asked.

All three looked at me in shock.

“How can you know that?” John demanded.

“I looked at a map of Virginia to see where McClure is”, I said. “Some little distance north of the place is a town called Fremont, which seemed rather too much of a coincidence. My friend Miss St. Leger did some research for me and confirmed that the contesting relative is indeed an invention, and that the unpleasant Mr. Elwood Grey is playing a devious game to disinherit you boys.”

“We should challenge him!” John said hotly.

“I would prefer to be on more solid ground before we risk that”, I said. “Remember, we are dealing with someone who at the end of the day can always hide behind the skirt of diplomatic immunity. Although he might do well to remember that those skirts cannot protect him from _every_ danger.”

 _Especially an unexpected encounter in a dark alley with some of Campbell's 'boys'_ , I thought. _One never knew just what might happen next Thursday evening at twenty-seven minutes to eleven when Mr. Grey would be traversing Marsham Alley on his way back from his regular trip to his club, did one? Although it was just possible that a certain foreign government functionary might join my impossible cousin Luke in finding out that, sometimes, it is the government that gets shafted!_

As I said, John really was a bad influence on me.

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After a short journey we arrived at Smitham Railway Station where we were met by a gaudily-dressed couple with whom I had a few words. Once they had left for the train back to London, John asked me who they were.

“The agents that I sent down to deal with the people spying on Mr. Lee's house”, I said calmly.

They all looked at me in shock. Again.

“Spying?” Beauregard said. “Why?”

“Because the British and American governments have not got to their current powerful positions on the world stage by taking chances”, I said, turning to John. “Remember the unpleasant Mr. Hogg who was so offended by a piece of coloured cloth that he complained all the way up to Randall?”

“Some people!” Lucas snorted.

“I reckoned that given what was likely afoot here, there would be one or possibly two people based in that personage's house observing Dixie House around the clock”, I said. “I did warn Randall to not attempt any further actions against Mr. Lee, but clearly he decided that once the gentleman was dead that prohibition did not extend to the settling of his estate.”

John's eyes lit up.

“Ishegoingtogethurt?” he asked, maybe just a shade too eagerly. Both the young gentlemen chuckled at his arguable over-eagerness.

“In one way”, I said, enjoying his pout when he realized that he was not going to be illuminated. “Come. Mr. and Mrs. Foliot have drugged the watchers and deposited them _sans_ clothing some distance away, but we only have today before they are missed and all hell breaks loose. We have to find that document!”

“What document, sir?” Lucas asked as we approached the house.

“Most likely a will, perhaps some medical document or maybe even a combination of the two”, I said. “I think that Mr. Lee would have left it where someone of his own ancestry would be more inclined to look for it, which is where you two gentlemen will be at an advantage. Let us begin.

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I broke into Dixie House easily enough and we split up to cover as much space as quickly as possible. The place was larger than I remembered and I could see one reason why the rascally lawyer was trying to swindle Campbell's boys out of a share of it. How much of a share I neither knew nor cared; justice was the important thing here.

After less than a quarter of an hour Beauregard came to me and said that he had found something. On the writing-desk were two envelopes addressed to each of the boys; he had very sensibly not touched them. John and Lucas had joined us, and I used my handkerchief to do a quick check. Sure enough I was right.

“Glue”, I said. “Someone has opened these letters and examined the contents, then closed them again. They had to use glue to reseal them.”

Since the letters were obviously addressed to the two gentlemen with us I felt nothing wrong in their opening them. Inside each was a single sheet of paper, near-identical notes thanking each of them for helping fulfil Mr. Lee's last requests. They were spectacularly unremarkable except for the curious fact that they had not been sent, and there seemed no reason for that omission.

“This is weird”, Lucas said looking at his cousin's letter. “He mentioned General Sherman in my letter, and in Bo's.”

“What is odd about that?” John asked.

“Sherman was the villain who wrecked the South before the war's end”, Beauregard said. “It makes no sense.”

 _Perhaps it did,_ I thought.

“Are there any statues or pictures of that general around here?” I asked. 

The boys both looked at me incredulously. Then John surprised us all by chuckling.

“I know where there is one!” he said.

“In Dixie House?” Lucas snorted. “Never!”

John smiled and walked over to the battlefield display where he pointed to one of the small figures. 

“General Sherman!” he announced and picked it up.

There was a hole in the table display directly underneath the figure, and since I had the longest fingers of us all I reached into it. I extracted two sheets of rolled-up paper, read them quickly and smiled.

“Jackpot!” I beamed.

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A few days later we went to the American Embassy to meet Mr. Elwood Grey. I have a generally low opinion of the legal profession – as John says, I suppose that we need them in much the same way as we need journalists, politicians and sewage workers – but he was the sort of person who made me wish to go go home and take a long bath afterwards to wash off his foul aura (which I did). I was not the least bit surprised with the first two pieces of news that he greeted us with.

“I am afraid that as regards the estate of the late Mr. Robert Lee, the cupboard is almost bare”, he said dryly. “The house is all that there is, although presumably his wealth is hidden somewhere in either it or its grounds.”

“I know”, I said.

That clearly disconcerted him, but he continued.

“As the sole person in charge of administering the estate I have decided not to fight Mrs. Fremont's contention that the will is invalid”, he said. “We will therefore be reverting to the natural laws of succession by which she and her kin will receive their rightful shares.”

“You will not”, I said firmly.

His face registered confusion that the world was for some reason not the way that he wished it to be. It was doubtless a novel experience for him, if a long overdue one.

“What do you mean, sir, 'I will not'?” he demanded.

I produced two sheets of paper.

“The first of these documents is a will dated _subsequent_ to the one in your possession”, I said. “Regardless of your decision it is therefore the rightful last will and testament of the late Mr. Robert Lee. The second document is a signed statement by three of Harley Street's finest doctors stating that Mr. Lee is of sound mind. Both are copies; I have had the originals safely locked away so do not trouble yourself in any attempt to destroy them.”

I stared pointedly at the lawyer. He twitched nervously.

“I do not see your point, sir”, he said. “Mrs. Fremont can still contest this will if she so wishes.”

“As she does not exist, I might reasonably conjecture that she would find that somewhat difficult”, I said, enjoying the look of shock on the fellow's face as he saw his schemes unravelling. “But you could always ask Mr. John Carter for his opinion.”

The rat was smart but he was still reeling from the shock of the day's events. He visibly had to pull himself together.

“I am not sure who you mean, sir”, he said haughtily.

“The American government minister who came over here and had top-level discussions with his British counterpart, shortly after Mr. Lee's death”, I said helpfully. “My brother Randall was at the meeting.”

John looked at me in shock.

“I _knew_ that smarmy son of a bitch could not be trusted!” Mr. Grey snarled. 

I smiled and produced a second set of papers.

“What are these?” the lawyer demanded.

“Papers for the sale of the property known as Dixie House, I said. “I used my small influence to ensure that the Duke cousins, who under this will are the rightful owners, needed to but sign these papers along with any prospective purchaser. That new owner can then tear the place apart to find where the late Mr. Lee hid all his money. There are major criminals” - I looked disdainfully at the lawyer and amended - “well, _other_ major criminals who would jump at the chance....”

“Where do I sign?” he snarled.

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We went to the bank with Mr. Grey and I ensured that the funds for the sale had been transferred into the accounts of the Duke boys before handing him the deeds to the house. They were both now very rich young men indeed, just as Mr. Lee had wished.

“I cannot believe that Randall betrayed the government to tell you about this”, John said once the smarmy lawyer had left us with his prize. 

“He did not.”

He looked at me in shock.

“But you said.....”

“I merely said that he was at the meeting, which Miss St. Leger has assured me that he was”, I said. “I did not say that he actually _told_ me anything. I cannot be held account for any consequences of people jumping to the wrong conclusions, can I?”

He chuckled at my obviously _faux_ innocence.

“It is just a pity that the American government will get some of Mr. Lee's estate”, he said.

“They will not get a penny of it”, I said confidently.

“How can you know that?” he demanded.

“Because apart from the house for which the boys now have a good price, the rest of it is already in America”, I said. “McClure, Virginia, to be exact.”

He just looked adorably confused. I chuckled.

“I had Miss St. Leger do a double-check, but despite his name Mr. Robert Lee never served in the military”, I said. “It was all a ruse. When Mr. Davenport breaks open his military baton a few months from now, he is going to be in for something of a surprise when a whole slew of diamonds and other precious stones fall out.”

_”What?_

“Miss St. Leger managed to discover just how he got his wealth away from the grasp of the American government”, I explained. “The military story was merely cover to explain the broken baton, which of course would not be mentioned because the military uniform could not be put on him until he was back home.”

“I hope that he is home now”, John sighed.

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Doubtless he was, and soon he was not the only one. With the generous amount that the American government paid the Duke boys, they were able to return to their homeland in the South and buy a good-sized house where they lived out the rest of their days in comfort and ease. Both married and had families of their own, and they wrote to me several times to thank me for what I had done for them.

Faring rather less well was a certain unpleasant foreign lawyer who featured on the front page of the 'Times' newspaper when a journalist 'happened' to find him naked and chained to one of the Trafalgar Square lions, and also a certain easily offended Smitham property owner who suffered not only the annoyance of the house opposite being suddenly very busy all hours of the day and night but worse, had his own garden requisitioned and all but destroyed when by some strange coincidence the only thing to emerge of use in the former Dixie House was a letter stating that something had been hidden in the grounds of the house opposite. As John would say, oh dear how sad never mind.

Best of all Randall got a stern talking-to by his superiors about discretion which, in a moment of stupidity impressive even by his 'standards', led to him going to whine to Mother - who had just finished another of her dreadful stories and insisted that he stay to hear it. The one about two American police officers who filled their time between investigations with.... honestly, 'NYPD Blue'!

Sometimes life is good – if not for certain lounge-lizards!

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	5. Case 138: The Adventure Of The Mummy's Curse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1888\. A near-death experience is not a good way to spend St. Valentine's Day, so things can only improve from there – can't they? Mummy says yes!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Non-graphic reference to failed suicide attempt at start of story.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

John Hamish Watson, as I have so often observed, did not do Feelings. Above all he reserved a special loathing for that horribly commercialized flowers-and-chocolates-selling opportunity known as St. Valentine's Day (he even felt compelled to 'help' me through it by eating anything chocolatey that had somehow found its way into our rooms!), which came around only a few days after our solving of the Duke Boys' Case. I had expected him to pass said day as a normal Tuesday, working in his surgery and then coming home to a regular meal followed by some reading and/or writing, and then bed. 

Instead of which he was in the next room to where I was now sat, fighting to save a man's life. A man that we both knew.

My friend chose that moment to emerge through the door, looking utterly exhausted. The young fellow sat across from me bit back a sob.

“No! Please Lord, no!”

“He is safe”, John said calmly. “I have administered a mild sedative and he will be under in minutes; rest is what his body needs more than anything else. You should be with him now.”

Constable Chatton Smith let out an almost inhuman cry and staggered through the open door, only narrowly missing John. We heard a strangled 'Fray!' before the door closed behind him. I led John away to the main room where we could leave them in peace.

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We were downstairs for some little time before Constable Smith rejoined us, his haggard face making him look so much more than his nineteen tender years. Neither John nor I commented on the fact that he had very clearly been crying. 

“Thank the Lord for that woman!” he sighed, collapsing into a chair.

“Mrs. Macdonald?” I asked, surprised if not astonished. Essie Macdonald, the late wife of poor Inspector Fraser Macdonald lying a broken man upstairs, had died last year and in all truth had been little mourned. A most unpleasant woman who had openly brought her lovers to the family home in her last few years, I had met her but once and that had been once too often. Ironically the young fellow before us had been inadvertently the cause of her downfall; she had made a play for his affections on his moving in as a lodger, and having been rebuffed had treated herself to a 'grand day out' in a London brothel. She had caught something there and had died soon after; drugs had also been involved but luckily as the examining doctor John had been able to 'brush over' that.

The young constable shook his head.

“No”, he said. “I was working when I got an urgent telegram from Alex up in Warwickshire. A woman had called in at his station and told him that his uncle's life was in danger.”

I thought back to the genial Warwickshire constable, the inspector's nephew whom we had met last year shortly after his aunt's death (The Adventure Of The King Stone). I had arranged for John to have a week in Stratford after the case because of my poor treatment of him in the weeks prior. It seemed like a lifetime ago when I thought of all that had transpired since yet.... ye Gods, it had been only eight months back!

“A lady who lives near Stow-on-the-Wold in Gloucestershire”, Constable Smith said. “She told him that his uncle needed help immediately or it would be too late. Alex is one of the most unimaginative fellows on the planet, bless him, but even he was scared. He sent me a telegram and I rushed here immediately.”

“Did this woman have a name?” I asked.

“Mrs. Cynric Musgrave”, he said. “Wasn't there a Musgrave in one of your books, doctor?”

John and I exchanged glances. Mrs. Cynric Musgrave, née Miss Monica MacLeish, had correctly foretold the deaths of the villains in our Scottish case and had been proven right on certain other things too.

“I found him lying in all that blood!” Constable Smith shuddered. “It was... it was....”

He put his head in his hands and sobbed. It was heart-wrenching.

“He will make a full recovery”, John said quietly. “Physically at least. I am not sure about his mental state, though.”

“I have contacts who can obtain him time off work”, I said firmly. “We need to give him space to recover, and us a chance to work out what caused this.”

The young man across from us continued to sob but I noticed a slight break in his sorrows. He knew something and it was a question of finding out what. Not from him in his current state of course; I would have to go elsewhere.

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“His name is Mr. Robert Gordon”, Miss St. Leger said calmly.

It was later that same afternoon. She was worryingly good. There was also something in her tone as if she was discussing something she had seen at the local sewage works.

“Who is he?” John asked.

“He is a curator at the British Museum”, she said. “The inspector's nephew, and from a rotten branch of the family tree!”

She took a deep breath.

“Mr. William Graham – no relation to the inspector's mother; his family is English - was a friend of the late and un-lamented Mr. John Macdonald”, she said. “As you know, the inspector's brother Andrew running off to Warwickshire put a spoke in their father's plan to marry them to the Graham girls and secure the inheritance they shared, but your poor policeman friend was made to marry Essie Graham and endured twenty years of hell; I have seen people who kill get less!”

“Agnes Graham was married off to a rich fellow called Mr. Charles Gordon, who was her second cousin but her closest male relative. They had several children but only one survived, the ghastly Robert, and they both died in a train crash just after he came of age recently. The young villain had never bothered with his uncle up till then, and I am afraid it is the old story. Money.”

“How?” I asked.

“The Graham daughters' inheritances were what they call a capital shift”, she said, “so that if either died then their widower got ten per cent of their inheritance as a lump sum for each year they outlived them and the rest at the end of that time. But if the widower died during that time, the surviving sister or their heirs if they had any got the lot. In other words, it was in Mr. Robert Gordon's interests that his Uncle Fraser follow his parents out of this world as soon as possible, especially as the dolt is as financially irresponsible as he is downright annoying.”

“Have you seen him in person?” I asked. 

She rolled her eyes in exasperation.

“He is one of the biggest bores in the city!” she said firmly. “And that is a title for which there is plenty of competition, let me tell you! I went to the Museum's exhibition on Ancient Greece some time back. _He utterly ruined it!_ He insisted on going up to anyone he could find and droning on about all the most boring bits of history imaginable! Not to mention his _voice!_ How can anyone manage a monotone drawl for that long without drawing breath?”

“He does not approve of Constable Smith?” I guessed. She nodded.

“I always think modern society works so well because we have a good balance”, she said. “People have high morals because they have to have something to aim for, and most people are tolerant of those who maybe fall a bit short but live their own lives quietly, so long as it does not bother them and they do not march around shouting about it. There are a few who do of course, but people tend to either ignore or make fun of them. Fortunately few of these loudmouths are as spiteful or generally useless as Rambling Robbie.”

She really was quite disrespectful at times. Although from her description of the fellow it may well have been justified in this instance (I would later come to appreciate that it so was).

“He has been round to see the inspector more recently”, she said, “after he found out about Constable Smith and started using that as leverage. The inspector was having enough trouble with his shrew of a wife dying and his feelings for the new person in his life, and I would guess that he was pushed that one step too far. The human frame is a fragile thing at the end of the day, as I know more than most.”

“This Mr. Gordon has got to be stopped!” I said firmly. “You said that he works at the British Museum?”

“Six days a week; his half-day is Saturday”, she said. “Saturday afternoons then is when I go now; the peace and quiet is wonderful!”

“Then he is about to make a most unfortunate historical discovery!” I grinned.

They both looked at me in surprise.

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Under normal circumstances I would have employed an agent for this task but the fact that the man had struck at someone I regarded as a friend (even if the inspector himself had been in all likelihood unfamiliar with that concept until recently) made me decide to do this myself. Fortuitously the British Museum was doing another of its periodic displays on Ancient Egypt next week, and I fully intended to take advantage of it.

I decided that I had better be certain of the disguise I had planned, so once I had got myself ready I went to Trafalgar Square. John had told me earlier that he was fortunate enough to have a patient in nearby Whitehall and around lunchtime, so he would certainly be dining at that restaurant on the corner whose double chocolate gateau he did not spend hours extolling to me every month as if he was thinking of proposing to it. Seriously, some people and their foodstuffs! 

Sure enough there he was looking as wonderful as ever, and sure enough there was the gateau. Some things in this world did not change, thankfully.

I smiled and went inside to order, not wishing to have to speak in case he recognized my voice. I then came out and sat at the closest table I could; he quirked an annoyed eyebrow at me as there was another empty table further away but I said nothing and looked at my paper.

The waitress brought my order and I caught his eyes light up as he saw the half a gateau that I had ordered to go. There may have been a small whine in there too before he regained control of himself but he retreated behind his own paper, although I caught him looking around the edges. Twice. There was most definitely a quivering lip in there too.

Finally he was ready to go and he still stared longingly at the box containing my cake. He took a step towards it, then sighed longingly and turned away.

“You will be having it tonight anyway.”

He stared at me in shock, clearly trying to process my voice coming from someone who looked nothing like me. I had a padded suit, glasses, a high-quality head of cropped ginger hair (which itched as it was on a head-cover suppressing my own unruly locks) and I had dyed my stubble to match. I was also dressed like a lowly clerk, and he took some time before he spoke.

_”Sherlock?”_

I took off my glasses and smiled at him.

“It works”, I said. “I might treat myself to a nice slice of cake to celebrate.”

Now _that_ was most definitely a whine!

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It was all in all a busy weekend, for I had not forgotten Randall's dealings with the estate of the late Mr. Lee. Also a happy weekend for John when he read (in those social pages that he hardly ever glanced at except on the very rare occasions that he just happened to be passing and the newspaper was open at that particular page) that a certain relative of mine had had to undergo hospital treatment after being severely beaten by a very angry Lord David Milborne-Duff. Apparently some horrible person had informed the amateur pugilist that his favourite niece had, despite being married, had an affair with a certain government functionary, so the nobleman had laid my brother out cold in the middle of the Strand. How very dreadfully unfortunate.

John calling it a 'celebration half-gateau' was, perhaps, pushing things. And as for having the newspaper article framed..... hmm.

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On Monday I went early to the British Museum where I had little trouble finding Mr. Robert Gordon. Miss St. Leger had been right; the sound of his voice was incredibly grating and I could understand why those who were visiting were moving swiftly away from him. I asked if I might have a word and he looked at me as if I was something that the cat had dragged in. I bridled, but restrained myself from punching him. For now.

“I am here on a most delicate matter”, I said. “It concerns a rather unusual hieroglyph.”

That clearly both confused him and caught his attention, and I was able to lead him over to where a sarcophagus was dominating the end of the room we were in.

“What is this all about?” he asked testily.

“My name is Mr. Alexander Castle”, I said, “and I have a first-class doctorate in Egyptian Studies from Oxford, Corpus Christi to be exact. I believe that this particular item is dated from the Twenty-Third Century Before Christ?”

He looked at me uncertainly but nodded.

“That is true”, he said, visibly puffing himself up for a long speech. “I supervised its positioning here personally, of course. It is a most important piece concerning...”

“I am sorry to interrupt you”, I lied, “but what I have to say is most urgent and it concerns your good self. I have to tell you that your translation of the hieroglyphs on this item is incorrect.”

He snorted in disbelief.

“Poppycock!” he said rudely.

“I would not be so brazen in your attitude, sir”, I said sharply. “That particular glyph” - I pointed to one with two wavy blue lines above a straight one – “is unique to the Kingdom of Upper Egypt which had re-emerged in the strife of those far-off times. It is not only an invocation towards the next world and the Pharaoh's place in it, but also a curse on any who would disturb that peace.”

He peered uncertainly at the hieroglyph I was indicating. I knew it was indeed unique as I had had a 'friend' of mine break into the Museum at the weekend to swap the original translation for my own version. Not of course to meddle with the original artefact where it had been so worn as to be barely visible – I was no vandal.

“So?” he said, still clearly annoyed at my presence.

 _“So”_ , I said as if I was dealing with a particularly stupid schoolboy, “I would then draw your attention to this photograph I have, of the same item being displayed in Egypt _before_ it was brought here. You will notice that on their reproduction, the end of the line is solid. Yet now it is divided. I am sorry to have to tell you that that that means the curse has been activated, most likely by someone in this museum.”

The photograph was a copy of one I knew was held by the Museum, and which had appeared in a historical magazine. Naturally I had changed it too. The villain looked at me dubiously.

“Who?” he said. “You cannot seriously think that it is I?”

 _Because someone with an ego your size would be immune to curses_ , I thought perhaps a shade cattily. Then again, perhaps not.

“We shall soon know”, I said confidently. “I am in London all this week, and this curse is said to work incredibly quickly. Whoever the poor soul is, I most definitely pity them. Their life will soon not be worth living!”

I walked away, thinking that such a thing was quite fitting given what he had done to the poor inspector.

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John had been round to check up on Inspector Macdonald again and told me that he was still weak but improving. I had been able to obtain some four weeks off for him and for Constable Smith by demanding their presence for a Most Delicate Matter Of International Affairs (capital letters always impressed people, I had found) so hopefully all would be over and done with by then. 

The gateau was all over and done with already!

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I was in the Museum the following morning when it opened and not hiding at all in a dark area behind a particularly large exhibit. It took a frantic Mr. Gordon nearly a quarter of an hour to locate me and when he did he was babbling nervously.

“You will not believe it, sir!” he said excitedly. “I went to take a bath last night, turned on the taps and _blood_ came out!”

Actually it had been water with a thickening dye and a rather strong scent, but I had seen it when I had purchased it and it had looked realistic enough. It had certainly fooled him, although that was arguably a low bar.

“Blood in the water”, I said thoughtfully. “Like the curse on the River Nile in the Good Book. How very odd. You have not by any chance _damaged_ that sarcophagus, have you sir?”

“Of course not!” he said hotly. “I would never do such a thing!”

“You see, blood only appears when either the pharaoh or close family are threatened”, I said frowning. “This is _most_ perplexing. I shall have to do some more research on the matter.”

“What about me, sir?” he whined. He really was a most unappealing fellow.

“There is little than can be done until I discover more”, I said. “But I would take care today, if I were you. Clearly you have annoyed the Pharaoh in some way and, whether it be Ancient Egypt or Modern Britain, that is _never_ a good thing!”

He shuddered and I left him. I thought wryly that if he was a man of any real ability he would know as I did (all right, as John had told me) that curses were almost unknown in Ancient Egypt. Fortunately he was as stupid as he was mean-spirited.

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It was Wednesday. I barely made it inside the Museum before the fellow was on to me. His face was covered in cuts and scratches.

“I do not know what happened”, he groaned. “Everything was fine until I shaved this morning, then I just started cutting myself.”

“Ah”, I said happily. “That is a good sign.”

He glared at me.

“How is my getting cut every which way a _good_ sign, sir?” he asked testily.

“Because it all but confirms the nature of the curse”, I beamed. “If I am correct in my surmise, then the next thing will be a rash.”

He went pale.

“Um, where?” he managed.

“Let me put it like this”, I said. “I really hope that you sleep alone sir, because I would not like a lady... yes. You know.”

I walked away and left him. _He knew_. Meanwhile my agents were swapping back the abrasive shaving cream that they had planted in his house the day before and also doing something rather interesting to his bed.

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Mr. Robert Gordon did not look well this morning. But as I well knew he had had precious little sleep, and from the careful way that he was walking, that powder in his bedsheets had most definitely had an effect.

“This is terrible!” he moaned. “You have to tell me how to stop it!”

“Alas, I cannot.”

He stared at me in horror. I sighed heavily.

“The sequence of events clearly indicates a Curse of Descent”, I said. “What with the way that there were so many people inclined to kill not just the pharaoh at the time but anyone descended from him, they would often place this specific curse to strike such attackers. I have admittedly rarely heard of its lasting for so many centuries except....”

I stopped, seeming lost in thought.

“Except?” he prompted, scratching himself in an effort to try to get some relief. A passing lady tutted at his coarseness.

“Pharaoh Ritopec the First whose tomb that is came from had a most successful reign” I said, feigning puzzlement. “He repelled an invasion by Lower Egypt and even made some territorial gains in Nubia. He would have had no need to invoke such a curse and his son was almost as... of course!”

I slapped my hand to my head. 

“What is it?” he demanded.

I looked around nervously and pulled him away from some nearby people. I spoke quietly.

“Without wishing to be indelicate”, I said, “the pharaoh's son and successor Ritopec the Second had a vizier, a man called Fures who came from the island of Cyprus. The two were, as they say in polite circles, 'close'.

I looked at him meaningfully. He (eventually) got it.

“You mean they.... ugh!”

“A different time”, I sighed. “The tomb must have been that of the _son_ , not the father, and the curse designed to protect the lineage of the _vizier_ , not the royal family. There must be a descendant of the vizier somewhere in the city, and you have clearly done something bad to them.”

I fixed him with a sharp look. He blushed.

“I have done nothing that I am ashamed of!” he said roundly.

“That is a relief”, I said. “Because unless measures are taken to remedy matters, the fifth stage of the curse is terrible indeed. I only hope you do not have close family, or if you do that you are possessed of copious life insurance. If you have the former and none of the latter, you have precious little time to remedy matters.”

For a pasty-faced fellow he could turn an impressive shade of white.

“Wh... wh.... what is it?” he asked tremulously.

“If you look closely at the division at the end of that glyph”, I said, “you will note that it forms six small triangles. That means that six agents of justice will be dispatched to track you down. Each will appear in turn but they will not strike until all six have been sent. Then.... they will do unto you as the Pharaoh did unto the vizier!”

I left him a shivering wreck. Good.

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Friday, the last day of the week. It was probably cruel of me to delay my visit to the Museum until early afternoon but it was necessary. As it was a half-day for John at the surgery I was able to brief him about it and take him with me, which was good.

We arrived at the Museum at just after two o' clock and entered separately as I could not risk my quarry recognizing my friend, although I suspected he would most likely not even notice him. I was barely through the entranceway when a blubbering Mr. Gordon was all over me. 

“Mr. Castle!” the excrescence whined. “Save me!”

Behind him two black men emerged from behind an exhibit and stared menacingly at the fellow. A third was nearby, very clearly watching him too. To the vile piece of human excrement quivering before me they were three of the six Ancient Egyptian vengeance-bringers, intent on doing something quite unspeakable to him. To me they were a costermonger†, a constable and a librarian; also two of the three were gentlemen whose release from the Tankerville Club I had obtained some nine years back. Jet looked as solid and unforgiving as a brick wall, Jay had shaved his head for the occasion and looked very menacing while Drake was almost bursting out of that white shirt with his impressive musculature and, I thought, looked particularly menacing. Although I did hope that that was not eye-shadow I could see or Mary would kill him, and even I was wary – all right, afraid – of that little lady!

“I cannot”, I said to the villain. “Only you can save yourself, sir.”

“How?” he demanded. “I will do anything!”

“I have asked people about you, sir”, I said coldly. “You have an uncle whose lifestyle you disapproved of and whose wealth you coveted. It may be many thousands of miles from the Nile to the Thames, but given enough centuries a bloodline can travel far indeed. Knowingly or not, you tried to destroy the lineage of the Pharaoh's lover.”

“What can I do?” he begged looking anxiously at the two men not far away. Drake was doing something with his hands that was.... suggestive.

“You must sign over eight part of nine of all you stand possessed to your relative”, I said. “Then you must spend a whole night praying to the Pharaoh's Wand.”

He looked at me in confusion.

“Today we call it Orion's Belt”, I said in mock exasperation. “You are extremely fortunate that we are in winter, sir, because otherwise those stars would not be visible from England and you would have to visit the other side of the world to see them.”

“But that will ruin me!” he protested.

“The alternative”, I said coldly, “is that those gentlemen following you each do to you what the Pharaoh did to his vizier!” I said pointedly. “In the vernacular of the day, government so often ends up with someone getting shafted. If you have not set in motion the transfer of funds before sunrise come Sunday – which given that the banks close on the weekend means you will have to find one open in the next hour or so – then they will surely come for you!”

Drake had somehow moved across the room without being seen, and suddenly appeared right behind Mr. Gordon. Who promptly fainted. I made a mental note to make sure that he removed that eye-shadow when I paid him outside; I did not want Mary to have _that_ to come home to, especially as she was expecting again! Also, she might come round to Baker Street and demand to know what the hell her lummocks of a husband had been dragged into _this_ time!

All right, I had hidden from her that one time. So?

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“A fitting end”, I said to John after I had paid off the Egyptian messengers (and made sure to remove every trace of Drake's eye-shadow). “He tried to steal the inspector's money, and has now lost nearly all of his own.”

The 'tail' that Miss St. Leger had placed on the vile Mr, Gordon had just reported back to me that he had effected the transfer of funds as hoped. 

“He very nearly stole his life”, John pointed out.

“He will have the weekend to mull over his failings”, I said. “Drake, Jay and Jet have arranged a rota to make sure that they will occasionally walk by the the villain 'by accident' several times over the next few weeks, just to keep him on the straight and narrow.”

John smiled.

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I called round on Inspector Macdonald to relate what had happened but found that he was not there. Fortunately a neighbour told me that he had gone to visit a friend in Petersfield Crescent, and knowing that that was the street in which one of my stepbrother's molly-houses lay I guessed that Constable Smith had taken him there so went after them. Campbell greeted me and confirmed that the two policemen were indeed in one of the back rooms.

“The inspector wants to move out of that house what will all the memories”, he said. “When Chas finally persuaded him, he did not want their first time to be in the same house.... you understand.”

I could, and I was _so_ glad for his all-too-rare reticence!

“They are well?” I asked.

“They are well all right!” Alan threw in from where he was writing letters. “They arrived yesterday and we have yet to see either of them. Your inspector friend is _loud_ ; we have had to stop using the rooms down that corridor what with all the screaming.”

Campbell tutted but, I noted, did not gainsay him. I was about to leave but at that very moment a bedraggled Constable Smith entered the room. He staggered over to the couch moaning at every step then fell onto it in an untidy heap with an even deeper groan. 

“He is killing me!” he moaned. “I cannot take any more!”

He was asleep in less than a minute. Campbell had the bad grace to snigger at the poor fellow.

_”Chas?”_

The tall figure of Inspector Macdonald loomed at the door. He was impressively muscular; I remember the constable telling us that his landlord spent many hours in the gymnasium opposite the police station where they both worked as he preferred that to returning to his unhappy home. Now the man was looking at his fellow policeman like a starving dog looking at a juicy steak.

Constable Smith woke and immediately looked horrified, but dutifully stumbled to his feet and trudged heavily out of the door, groaning at every step. The inspector followed him and closed the door, but we all still heard a surprised yelp soon afterwards. Campbell shook his head at them.

“Apparently some older men _do_ have the stamina”, he mused. “I wonder if our inspector might be persuaded to spread himself a little further?”

“Only if you want your stepbrother here to be investigating _your_ murder!” Alan said shortly.

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_Notes:_   
_† Someone who sold fruit and vegetables, usually from a handcart as opposed to in a shop._

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	6. Case 139: The Darlington Substitution Scandal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1888\. In the first of four major cases in a busy month, a freckle appears briefly in the wrong place – but according to Sherlock, that could lead to murder! Also the first of two successive cases that would take the dynamic duo to God's Own County, Yorkshire.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

I have known my friend take on many cases that brought little or no financial reward (not that he needed it) while he would often reject cases for a whole variety of reasons. I will not embarrass the prominent politician of the 'Eighties who turned up at 221B one day absolutely one hundred per cent certain that Sherlock would take _his_ case, then added to his _faux pas_ by demanding that I not be present. I have rarely seen my friend angry but had the fellow not taken the hint and departed I truly feared that violence might well have ensued (although I was sure there was a doctor living somewhere nearby whom I might or might not have been prevailed upon to have fetched). Similarly Sherlock accepted cases for all sorts of reasons, but few had such a strange starting-point as the Darlington Substitution Scandal or, as my friend preferred to call it, 'the Mystery Spot'.

Mr. Raymond Upham-Torquhar-Maughan, better known by his honorific Lord Darlington, was at the time of this story in his late thirties and one of the rising stars of the government, widely expected to be promoted to a Cabinet post in the next reshuffle. As I have mentioned before, the lines of party loyalty were more blurred back in those days and he had garnered praise from both his own party and the opposition. 

Hence when 'Edith, Lady Darlington' was announced by Mrs. Hudson that cold St. David's Day I sat up expectantly. I knew from the society pages (which I did not read as often as 'someone' claimed) that she was thirty-seven years of age, famously beautiful and a cousin of the steel magnate Sir Henry Bessemer. She had been married before but her first husband had died in a mining accident; her second and current husband owned a main property in the Yorkshire Dales called Hartrigg Hall as well as a hunting-lodge in the North of Scotland, property in the Durham town from which he took his title and a large house in Berkeley Square as well as having significant financial holdings. They had had no children but she had a son from her first marriage, Stephen, who was eleven years old and had been adopted by her current husband as his heir. Lord Darlington had one younger brother, Joseph, who was a lawyer and a most unpleasant piece of work; he had nearly been debarred from the profession for financial malpractice and the newspapers had speculated that only the influence of his brother had prevented that. His escape from justice had been brief; no company had wished to be associated with him and he had had to leave the country, currently living at his brother's expense in Luxembourg.

Perhaps I did read those pages just a little more than I thought. But if I so much as thought that 'someone' was doing anything approaching a smirk, than 'someone' would not be getting any bacon tomorrow! And he could stop shaking his head like that as well!

Lady Darlington was indeed beautiful but one look at her frail features told me that this was a lady in some distress. Mrs. Hudson bustled away to bring tea and cakes and Sherlock gently led our visitor to the fireplace chair before taking the seat opposite her. Surprisingly her first words were addressed to me.

“I know that you keep records of your friend’s many successes, doctor”, she said in a melodious tone, “but if he does decide to take my case I doubt that you will want to document it. I am not even sure if the great Mr. Sherlock Holmes can help me.”

“Perhaps you should explain exactly what help it is that you require, my lady”, Sherlock said gently. She hesitated.

“I have read the cases that you have solved”, she said, “and noted that you manage to succeed with what is sometimes very little to work with. But more I suspect than in what I have to offer you. Mr. Holmes, something is wrong with my son.”

We both looked at her expectantly but it seemed that that was it.

“Surely Doctor Watson would be more suited to your needs?” Sherlock ventured.

“I did not mean medically”, she said, twisting her hands nervously. “I mean….. it is very hard to explain.”

Sherlock sat back and smiled reassuringly. This lady had to be worried; I had not even detected a simper as yet!

“You are a lady of good breeding and good sense, Lady Darlington”, he said, shooting me a disapproving look for some reason. “You would not venture out into this city's horrible traffic and temperamental weather merely on a ‘hunch’. When did you first notice that something was amiss?”

Our visitor took a deep breath.

“Last December, Ray suggested that it would be beneficial for Stephen to spend some time working on his estate in Yorkshire”, she said. “He was concerned that he needed to mix with a wider class of people than he was currently experiencing, and as he was ahead with his school work I agreed subject to him having a tutor for some of his time there. But when my son came back a couple of weeks ago he was so much more withdrawn than before. He is not exactly rude as such but he used to be considerate of others, even the servants, and that has now ceased. He dresses untidily and takes little care of his appearance of which he used to be so proud. He has even started taking his meals in his own room; Ray is not happy but he allows it for now. I am certain that something happened during his time in Yorkshire, and it makes me uneasy.”

I noted that she referred to the boy as 'my' rather than 'our son'. Sherlock pressed his long fingers together.

“Does your husband make frequent business trips north?” he asked. 

She seemed surprised at the question but nodded.

“For about a week every month”, she said. “He did stay with Stephen for three weeks when he started on our estates up there, but I asked him to do that so he could be sure he was settling in. Ray always regrets going and sends me little tokens to show that he is thinking of me if he has to stay longer than his usual week. Yet I am sure that he knows something about what happened to my son up there.”

Sherlock thought for a while.

“This is most curious”, he said at last. “First, has your husband always spent a fair amount of his time on his estates in the North?”

“Not until some two years ago”, she said. “But there is a reason for that. You may remember that there was a stock market crash at that time; Ray had largely moved his investments to the North before it happened. The family has always held some lands in Darlington which is just over the border into Durham but he has expanded our interests there by purchasing a number of adjoining small farms in the Dales, he said to create larger and more economical units. That is another reason why he needs to be there for so long nowadays; these farms are all very remote.”

“Tell me about your own family”, Sherlock said. 

“My father was cousin to the famous Henry Bessemer”, she said, “and a major investor at a time when his inventions were still viewed with distrust by many people. Dear Uncle Henry – I always call him that – he never forgot that help and those investments were returned manifold. Unfortunately my father died fighting in the Crimean War not long after I was born, so my dear mother raised me and managed all my investments for me.”

“I met Bill - my first husband, Mr. William Allerton - thirteen years ago; it was the proverbial whirlwind romance. He was a local businessman, ten years my senior but there was something very obvious between us. We married barely a month after we had first met and I had Stephen ten months later. I was devastated when Bill died in a mining disaster not long after that; he had been inspecting the place and was trapped underground....”

She took a deep breath and collected herself before continuing.

“I met Ray at a ball in York five years past and we were married a year to the day afterwards. Having Stephen adopted as his heir was, I made clear, a condition of marriage.”

“Has your husband changed at all of late?” Sherlock asked.

I noted that our visitor seemed to have to think about that.

“He has been working harder than usual”, she admitted, “but he has not changed towards me. Indeed if anything he is even more attentive than usual.”

“How so?” Sherlock asked.

“I had a slight illness last month and he cancelled his trip north to stay with me”, she said. “Just a winter chill and I told him that he should go anyway, but he insisted.”

Sherlock nodded. There was a long silence.

“There is something that you have not told us, Lady Darlington”, he said at last.

“Sir....”

“You are keeping something back”, Sherlock said firmly. “Something important. Please tell us what that is.”

She blushed fiercely and said nothing.

“What is it?” Sherlock insisted. 

She hesitated again but answered.

“It is such a silly little thing”, she said looking even more embarrassed, “and there is probably a rational explanation for it. It is just.... the way things have been of late....”

She paused before continuing.

“Stephen has a small number of freckles which I have always found most endearing. Most are on his chest but he has one larger one on his left cheek. The other day I caught him looking at himself in the mirror and it was only later, when I was brushing my hair before bed, that I realized something odd. A mirror reflects things, which meant that the freckle had to have been on his _right_ cheek. I thought that I must have imagined it and dear Ray had to try hard not to laugh at me when I told him. Sure enough the next day it was on his left cheek after all. I must have imagined it.”

Sherlock looked worried by that moving blemish for some reason. I thought instinctively of my own freckles which I had always felt more than a little unmanly; I had always hoped that they would somehow fade with age, but the horrible things had not. Even worse my brother Stevie did not have any, which was just unfair!

“Does your husband know that you have come here today?” he asked, glancing at me for some reason.

“No”, she said. “I do not like keeping secrets from him but I had a feeling that he would not approve. And it is not exactly something that I could go to the police about. They would just laugh at me, I am sure.”

“Does anybody else know?” Sherlock asked.

“No. I told the servants that I was going shopping. I have a personal maid but she is visiting her sick mother on the Isle of Dogs, which is one reason that I chose today to see you. I do trust her, but we all know that servants gossip.”

“Then you must be sure to return with some small purchases”, Sherlock said. “Lady Darlington, I must be honest with you. I see several possibilities with this case and none of them are good. Danger may be approaching, possibly even death, and it is vitally important that the person behind those threats does not even begin to suspect my involvement. If we are careful then we may be able to catch them.”

Her eyes had widened in terror at his words.

“Sir, you are frightening me!” she stammered.

“Forewarned is forearmed”, Sherlock said. “Tell me, are there any special dates in your son’s life?”

“Yes”, she said. “there is his twelfth birthday later this month. There is a clause in the Darlington family estate which prevents any child under that age from being formally acknowledged as an heir, I presume because of the high child mortality rate in olden times.”

“On what day?” Sherlock pressed.

“The nineteenth.”

“I have a feeling that that date is important”, Sherlock said. “Does your husband travel north before that date?”

“He usually goes around the second week of each month”, she said, “but this month he has to travel up next Friday, the sixteenth, and will return late on Tuesday the twentieth. Stephen will have his birthday marked on the twenty-first; he has said that he does not want any sort of fuss or even a party which again is not like him. Do you fear that either of them are in danger?”

“It is a possibility that we must consider”, Sherlock said firmly. “I am sorry that there is so little comfort I can offer you, Lady Darlington, but just as Watson here must tell patients the way things are whether good or ill, so must I tell my clients. I think it best bearing in mind the risk involved that you do not attempt communication with us before your son’s birthday, unless there is some unexpected change in your husband’s schedule. If we have anything to tell you then we shall initiate contact.”

“How?” she asked. Sherlock’s eyes twinkled.

“A consulting detective cannot reveal _all_ his secrets, my lady”, he said. “Ah, the knock at the door means that the maid is here with our refreshments. We shall eat and drink, not worry for a little while, then you shall do your shopping and return to Berkeley Square.”

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The day of Lady Darlington's visit was one where I was working at home, finishing off a final re-editing of the Greek Interpreter case (I do not know why this particular story had caused me so much trouble but it had taken months before it had felt good enough to consider sending to the 'Strand'). Sherlock had to go out presumably in connection with the case so I was left alone in the room. I was often absorbed in my work when writing and had not Mrs. Hudson sent up lunch I would probably have forgotten to eat.

Sherlock returned that afternoon and seemed more preoccupied than usual. I had finished my manuscript – he had already checked the original version and I was only doing a check for spellings and grammar – so I took it down to post. When I returned we had a quiet dinner and after some light reading in my fireside chair I decided to turn in. I was half out of my seat and jumped when he spoke across the fire.

“John”, he said quietly, “how many times did you look in the mirror today?”

I pouted. Damn the fellow, he knew me too well! Lady Darlington's remarks about freckles had all too predictably aroused my own insecurities about all the ones on my own face and body which I had always felt were something that a grown man should not have. Sherlock must have spotted how little I liked them but he had never remarked on it.

Until now.

“Once or twice”, I admitted.

He raised a quizzical eyebrow at me.

“Eight”, I said miserably. 

He rose and walked over to me, gently taking my hand. I looked down to where our rings rested against each other and smiled. 

“You do know that some people claim that freckles are in fact angel kisses”, he smiled. 

“Now you are just embarrassing me!” I protested if rather half-heartedly.

“I value all of you”, he said simply. “Your freckles help make you, you.”

I sniffed. But it was a manly sniff.

Yes it _was!_

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Whatever Sherlock did as regards the Darlington case over the next few days I did not see, but on the twelfth he cornered me before I left for work.

“Would you be able to accompany me to Yorkshire over this weekend?” he said. “Or are you too busy at the surgery?”

Fortunately that year had seen a milder than usual winter so I was able to affirm that I could travel North with him. The smile on his face was reward enough for what I knew would be an intolerably long train journey and indifferent hostelries. At least the countryside would be good and the air fresh.

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I was surprised when, upon leaving Baker Street at a most unseasonable hour the following Friday morning we continued south across the Marylebone Road rather than turning west for King’s Cross Station. 

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“Berkeley Square”, he answered. “I wish to make sure that our target takes his train.”

“We are following Lord Darlington?” I asked excitedly. A chase!

“We have some inquiries to make in the White Rose County”, Sherlock said. “I fully expect that despite the supposed backwardness of the rural area to which we are heading, word of our arrival will reach His Lordship sooner rather than later. I very much doubt that he will be pleased.”

“You think that he is a target?” I asked.

“He will likely go to the station”, Sherlock said and I noted that he had avoided answering my question. “I am less worried about him and rather more about keeping his dear lady wife in this world rather than allowing someone to push her into the next.”

“You really fear that her life is in danger?” I asked, surprised. 

“I am certain of it”, he said.

“And her son?”

“The boy in Berkeley Square is perfectly safe.”

I thought that I could detect a slight evasion there too, but our conversation was curtailed by our arrival in Berkeley Square where we found a carriage waiting outside Darlington House. After about ten minutes Lord Darlington emerged with his wife whom he kissed farewell before mounting his carriage and leaving. Lady Darlington waved to someone out of my sight on the other corner of the square before returning to the house.

“I arranged that she should do that as a signal”, “Sherlock explained. “All is well; her husband is headed to King’s Cross as planned. Had it been otherwise she would have walked over as if to post a letter and we could have met her by the pillar-box as it is out of sight of the house.”

“How did you communicate with her without her husband knowing?” I asked. He smiled.

“One of the capital's top pickpockets owed me a favour”, he said. “He said that he quite enjoyed the challenge of getting something into a lady's purse undetected rather than out of it!”

He called up the destination to our cabbie and we rumbled off in distant pursuit. Once at the station we followed Lord Darlington onto the platform and eventually secured the compartment next but one to his, pulling the blinds down to secure our privacy. Sherlock explained that we would have to keep checking at each station in case our quarry alighted early for some reason but as he had purchased a ticket for Northallerton he expected him to most likely go straight there. Sure enough he did. 

My friend put a restraining had on my arm once we were on the windy platform in the small town.

“He will stay at the Station Hotel for the first two nights as is his custom”, he said. “We must endeavour to find somewhere salubrious enough for two wandering souls on a week’s walking holiday in the Dales.”

We were fortunate enough to find a fair-sized inn in the town which let rooms this early in the season, though unfortunate to be caught in a swift downpour _en route_ there. I was heartily glad when the landlord said that two hot baths could be made available. We squelched into our room and divested ourselves of our clothes; Sherlock seemed to be having particular trouble with his left cuff button and growled in annoyance at it. I chuckled.

“Come here”, I said having got myself into my dressing-gown. I managed to extract his button from the thread it had caught on and the sleeve hung loose. But as I went to take my hand back he suddenly grasped my wrist and stared straight into my eyes.

“Thank you, John”, he said quietly. 

That look was too intense. I blushed fiercely.

“It was only a button”, I said, almost defensively.

“Not just for that”, Sherlock smiled. “For everything. For being you. For being my friend. Thank you.”

I was saved by a knock at the door and the maid’s voice calling out that our baths were ready. Somewhere, I suspected, my manliness was sobbing quietly in a corner and wondering just how quickly it could set about disowning me. 

Let it!

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On Saturday Sherlock went off up the dale to do whatever he had to do and I went to the hotel to see what Lord Darlington was up to. I had feared that there were just too many opportunities for me to either lose him or worse, to be seen following him, but it turned out that my fears were groundless.

“He ordered a cab to take him to a village called Stainsrigg after breakfast, and luckily he did so at the reception desk when I was sat in the alcove next to it”, I told Sherlock later. “The receptionist loaned me a map that showed it was about six miles away and she remarked that he often went there, so I took a chance and went on ahead to the place. It is only a small place, not more than twenty houses all clustered around a single dead-end track off the main valley road. When he arrived he went straight into 'Rose Cottage' which I found out is owned by a Mr. Thomas Drake, a former servant of the family. I was glad that I had brought my book because he did not emerge all day. I had lunch at the Pig & Whistle after they told me that when he comes, they always send their man over to take him back to his hotel. I thought that I would have to walk over a mile to Hardale where there was a railway station but I was lucky enough it run into a party of tourists, and they let me ride back to town in their carriage.”

Sherlock nodded at my tale.

“You did well”, he said and I tried not to preen (I failed). “If he goes back to the village tomorrow or whenever he does, make sure you have your lunch at the same inn.”

“Will that not run the risk of alerting him?” I asked.

“As things now stand I would quite like for Lord Darlington to be alerted”, he smiled. “I think that the way things stand it is the key to the whole problem.”

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On the Sabbath however Lord Darlington went to the railway station and took a train to the town from which he took his name. It turned out that he was attending some civic function involving the opening of a new park in the town, and like most such events it dragged on well into the afternoon; I thought once more that if ever scientists found a way to harness the power of boring and overly long speeches they might be able to close down all the coal mines! My quarry spoke briefly to a fellow there who was identified to me as his local lawyer, then he travelled straight back to Northallerton. Sherlock would not reveal to me the results of his own labours as yet but he seemed quietly pleased. 

The following day was Monday the nineteenth, Master Stephen Darlington's birthday, and Lord Darlington once again went out to Stainsrigg. I followed Sherlock’s instructions and extracted from one of the locals at the inn that Mr. Drake had retired some years back to a house paid for by his late employer. It struck me as odd that a nobleman would go to such an expense but the fellow told me that Mr. Drake had been in employment with Lord Darlington’s uncle and father both of whom had held the title before him, so maybe there was a strong sense of obligation there.

Unfortunately the nearest post-office was like the station back in Hardale so I decided to walk there after lunch and communicate my findings to Sherlock, who had said that he would be back at the inn just after lunch. I had anticipated a quiet end to my day’s detective work but on my way there I heard the sound of approaching hooves and only narrowly managed to get myself off to the safety of a convenient copse before Lord Darlington was driven by, heading back towards Northallerton in what looked like a tearing hurry. I watched him go and decided to continue to Hardale, but on my arrival I found the post-office about to send a boy looking for me with a telegram from the great detective. He instructed me to return to Stainsrigg and that he would be joining me there very soon. Puzzled, I did as I was asked.

Some little time later Sherlock arrived on horseback with a second horse on a leading rein. It was long dark, almost eight o' clock and his electric blue eyes shone strangely in the darkness. Refusing all questions he asked that I show him Rose Cottage, then surprised me by marching up the path and thumping loudly at the door. It was eventually opened by the house owner and some tense words were exchanged. Both men then went into the house and only a few minutes later Sherlock returned with what looked like a small boy by the size of him. 

“We must return at once to Northallerton”, Sherlock said firmly. “I am sorry doctor, but explanations must wait until we are safely headed back to London. Dark things may still happen if we do not move fast.”

“At least tell me who that is?” I asked as I hoisted myself up onto my mount. I nearly fell off the other side at my friend’s response.

“Master Stephen Darlington”, he said calmly.

I stared at him in astonishment. How the blazes had the man's son got all this way up from London? And what had he been doing in some remote Dales cottage?

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I wondered at our going to the railway station as surely the last train of the day, at least one going all the way to London, must surely have gone by now.

“I chartered a special before I left to join you”, Sherlock said. “We may be safe here but I would rather not risk it. It has a sleeper coach; only second-class but speed is of the essence.”

“After you have explained everything”, I said as my friend hustled his young charge onto the platform, the boy almost falling asleep on his feet. Sherlock half-carried him into the sleeper and presumably saw him to bed, returning just as the train got under way.

“This has been a dark case, doctor”, he said looking tired from all his exertions. I too was exhausted but desperate to know all before I could sleep. “Fortunately the Gods have been with us and I can safely say that we have prevented a double murder.”

“A _double_ murder?” I gasped. He nodded.

“Lady Darlington and her son.”

I stared at him in shock.

“Around two years ago Lord Darlington was made aware that he had a son of his own blood through an affair that he had had shortly before his marriage to Lady Darlington”, he began. “The lady, who was local to the Northallerton area, died not long after informing him of his true first-born son; presumably it was her illness that prompted her into such a fatalistic action.”

“How do you know all this?” I challenged.

“I searched the official records of the churches in Wensleydale and at Askrigg I found a lady whose age and death matched what I was looking for”, he explained. “Her name was Miss Adelaide Drake, and she was the niece of Mr. Thomas Drake.”

 _Now_ I saw the connection to the old servant.

“Lord Darlington has a reputation in politics for being something of a gambler and he comes up with a bold if evil scheme”, he went on. “He persuades his wife to allow his adopted son to spend some time in Yorkshire 'to broaden his horizons'. What actually happens is that Master Stephen Darlington is kidnapped and then kept sedated while Lord Darlington's natural son, Master William Drake, takes his place. Lord Darlington has some little time to train him up then they return south. At that age both boys are entering puberty so he hopes that Lady Darlington will ascribe the changes in character at least partly to that.”

I sat in stunned silence.

“They have less than a month to hold out and then the substituted boy will be away to school – a new one of course. Once the hidden Stephen Darlington is twelve years old – yes, this very day, doctor - his replacement could inherit in his name. I doubt that the imprisoned boy would have survived for long after the return of his father and his replacement scheduled for the morrow. You will also remember that Lady Darlington had her brief illness recently. That was her husband preparing to strike and remove her. He has clearly become aware of our presence for he has returned early to London by the last train, but I wired ahead to his wife before meeting you and I learned at the station that she has left for Guilford's hotel as I arranged. Lord Darlington will find only his replacement son when he reaches Berkeley Square, and a note telling him that the game is up.”

“And the mystery spot?” I asked.

“Being his half-brother William Drake resembled Stephen Darlington in many ways, except for that notable freckle”, he explained. “He applied a copy using theatrical make-up, but he forgot that in applying something in a mirror, the image is _reversed_. Although he thought that the freckle was on the left cheek, it was in fact on his right. Lady Darlington mentioned it to her husband who immediately corrected his son; they hoped that she would just think that she had been mistaken as indeed she did. But thankfully she also came to us, which has helped save her and her son's lives.”

I sat back, still trying to piece it all together.

“The government?” I asked. Sherlock shook his head.

“I suspect that by the time we reach London, Lord Darlington and his substitute son will have fled the country”, he said. “Perhaps it is better that way. The embarrassment for Lady Darlington would otherwise be terrible rather than just awful.”

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Sherlock was as ever right in his assessment. The following day the newspapers were filled with the sensational disappearance of Lord Darlington, with all sorts of strange speculations as to the cause (alien abduction, and in the 'Times' of all places?). The nobleman had managed to secure some of his investments before fleeing but there was more than enough for Lady Darlington to take her son, mercifully none the worse for his months-long ordeal, and retire to a quiet country life which, she later wrote in her thank-you letter to us both, she had always yearned for. Her son grew to be a fine gentleman and now has a large family of his own as well as the administration of one of our African colonies, and once he had recovered he wrote Sherlock a most gracious letter of thanks which I knew my friend was pleased with.

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	7. Case 140: The Adventure Of The Arnsworth Inheritance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1888\. Almost immediately there arises a second case in Yorkshire for the dynamic duo and this time it is a treasure-hunt. Sounds exciting – but the people who want something found are horrible! What is a consulting detective and his medical scribe to do?

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

Foreword: I had not originally intended to include this particular case in my first expanded canon in 1921. However, rumours put about by relations of the Huffington-Brands to the purpose that Sherlock failed their family prompted me to explain what really happened on behalf of my friend, as it concerned one of the most obnoxious set of clients it has ever been my displeasure to have to meet! And in all our years together there was far too much competition for that 'honour'!

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I had always felt an affinity with the writings of the Brontë Sisters and their dystopian works set in the wilds of the West Riding of Yorkshire, a county of such vivid contrasts whose North Riding we had been in but recently. Thus the chance to visit the area and to see the famous Arnsworth Castle, scene of a year-long Civil War siege, was welcome indeed. Unfortunately our clients in this case would turn out to be amongst the most odious of a long line of humanity who had called on my friend's great talents over the years with the result that.... well, we shall see.

We were back in Yorkshire only two days after the conclusion of the Darlington Substitution Scandal and I had used the journey north to review my notes on 'The Sign Of The Four', which unlike the Greek Interpreter case had seemed to flow much more easily from my pen. The 'Strand' magazine had most generously increased their payments for my works and even Sherlock had seemed to be moderately impressed at my efforts though he still said that I inclined too much to the dramatic and not enough to the factual. But he said it with a smile in those blue eyes of his and I knew that he did not really mean it as a criticism. It was a fine sunny spring day and once we had changed at Leeds for the local train to Keighley I sat back contentedly in my first-class seat. My life was good just now.

Sherlock looked at me amusedly.

“I doubt that this case will feature amongst your great literary achievements, John”, he said. “No murder, no governmental double-dealing, not even an annoying lounge-lizard of a brother – which is a pity given the new gun that you purchased recently! Just a simple treasure-hunt for what might well be no treasure.”

“Tell me about it”, I said sitting forward. I knew that he had received a telegram the previous evening and I had had to send a message to the surgery myself to secure my absence for a short time. But as I have said, my slowly increasing fame was increasingly benefiting my employer and they did not mind my sometimes variable attendance provided that I made my time up later. Also I had the support of the other doctors who I had been insistent shared some of the gains that my increasing fame had brought to our surgery.

“It concerns the recent death of Mr. Elisha Huffington, the owner of Arnsworth Castle in our destination, Keighley”, Sherlock began. “I am sure that you know the history of the place and that he was the last of the direct male line. He died of pneumonia at the age of fifty-four.”

I nodded; I had read of the death in the 'Times' nearly a month back. Although I wondered why the matter was suddenly so important four weeks on.

“Though he had no direct heirs, Mr. Huffington's first cousin once removed Mrs. Jennifer Huffington-Brand – he had 'requested' that they both adopt his surname - lived in the castle along with her husband Adolphus. They have asked me to help them out. Reading between the lines I suspect that the fact his cousin married a German did not sit well with the late Mr. Huffington, and from her tone I doubt very much that Mrs. Huffington-Brand would have made much effort to ameliorate matters. I did have some initial suspicions about the death of the late Mr. Elisha but the local coroner told me that the gentleman had contracted pneumonia each of these last three winters, it proving fatal this time. That was confirmed by his doctor, and his potential beneficiaries did not seem to have gained by his demise. Possibly even the reverse, as things turned out for them.”

“How so?” I asked.

“Since he had no direct blood lineage the castle was Mr. Elisha Huffington's to dispose of as he wished”, he went on, “and he left a most peculiar will. For one month the castle was to become the property of a temporary trust run by his lawyers, and his cousins were to be paid an allowance for living there. As so often in these things, there was a catch. The will stated that the couple had to locate the whereabouts of their dead relative's wealth in that time, and if they failed so to do then the building and its entire contents would thereafter be gifted to the town of Keighley. If they succeeded, then the castle would be sold and they would receive all the proceeds from that sale as well as the wealth. I have to note that they have waited until there are only three days to go before calling me in so I am not best pleased.”

“They want you to find the money, then?” I asked. He nodded.

“There were the usual bequests to servants”, he said, “quite generous ones from what I have been told, but yes. Mr. Elisha Huffington only narrowly survived his illness last winter and he appears to have spent his remaining few months removing his money from bonds and investments, presumably changing it into some other form as there were no financial holdings at the time of his death save an almost empty current account. Whatever he did, his wealth has thus far eluded his relatives' efforts to find it.”

“So in three days they are homeless”, I observed.

“No”, Sherlock said. “He did leave them a small house in the town which is theirs as of right but from Mrs. Huffington-Brand's letter that is not an option which particularly appeals to her, although I doubt that it is in truth the 'hovel' that she claims it to be. I dare say that we shall know more once we reach our destination which is but a short cab ride from the station.”

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We arrived in Keighley some little time later and the ride to Arnsworth Castle took barely five minutes. It held a commanding position on an obviously man-made hill where the little River Worth joins the much larger River Aire and it was easy to see why it had been able to withstand a siege for so long. Legend had it that Mr. Ahab Huffington who had held the place for King Charles had yielded it to the parliamentarians after Prince Rupert's defeat at Marston Moor in return for being allowed to keep control of it, and it was notable that unlike other places taken at this time the fortress had not been slighted as had been the normal practice back then. 

Two rather poorly-presented servants took our bags up to our rooms and we were asked to attend our hosts at once. We found them waiting for us in the sitting-room. 

Sherlock entertained all sorts of strange clients during his career, but few elicited such a strong negative reaction from me as the Huffington-Brands at that first encounter. Had we not had the coroner's assurance that the late Elisha Huffington's death had been from natural causes I should have suspected them within moments of our encounter. Mrs. Huffington-Brand – 'please call me Jenny!' - was a large woman who openly simpered at Sherlock despite her husband being right next to her. She was somewhere between forty and fifty; it was hard to tell beneath the construction worker levels of make-up that she had trowelled on that morning. She also used perfume like a battering-ram; I stepped back and had to suppress a cough at the stench of violets! And her fake smile was almost as grating as her voice!

Her husband Adolphus was scarcely any better, an oily runt of a fellow in his late forties with receding (and badly dyed) grey hair, a weak attempt at a moustache and small eyes. He seemed markedly less keen than his wife in our involvement in the case, I noted, although I would have wagered that if Sherlock did find the family fortune for him he would probably think him the best thing since fresh bread!

Mrs. Huffington-Brand ( _I_ was not invited to 'please call her Jenny') told us that dinner would be served shortly but she hoped that we would get down to work immediately. Sherlock smiled benignly.

“I do have a list of questions for you as regards the case”, he told her as I took out my notebook to note down her replies. “In the short time left to us we must make maximum use of our efforts. Do not worry; my friend never publishes a case without the express permission of those involved, including myself.”

She seemed to relax a little at that reassurance. I could already see myself being torn in this case, partly wanting Sherlock to succeed and partly hoping that he failed so that these obnoxious people did not get what they clearly thought they were entitled to. A good bath and several gallons of make-up remover, for one thing.

“First”, Sherlock said, nodding at me for some reason, “I wish to know what if anything has been removed from the house since your later cousin's death.”

“Nothing of import”, she said firmly. “The will did make a whole host of unnecessary bequests to servants and the like but they do not get put into effect until our month is up. Which it very nearly is!”

My friend would have been fully within his rights to choose that moment to point out that the couple had waited until the last moment before calling him in, but he did not. However I did notice a tell-tale slight crease in his forehead, a sure sign that he was annoyed but was refraining from comment.

“Who is empowered to act as executor?” he asked. “I assumed that bearing in mind the terms of the will, Mr. Huffington could hardly have appointed your good selves.”

“That imp Stephenson from the old man's lawyers, Crampton, Utterthwaite & Stephenson”, she sniffed. “He is far, _far_ too young for such a great responsibility, but he was the one who drew up this wretched will. We wanted to challenge it but my cruel cousin made it so that if we challenged and failed we would lose even that ghastly little hovel.”

She sounded truly indignant that her inconsiderate relative had declined to leave all his money to her. My regard for the late Mr. Huffington increased considerably and I had to work hard to suppress a smile.

“Is Mr. Stephenson a partner at his firm?” Sherlock asked, looking across at me for some reason. 

“He is not even of clean birth!” Mrs. Huffington-Brand sneered. “He was adopted by old Mr. Stephenson from the orphanage when his own wife could not bear children. Incredibly, he partakes in the local _theatre!”_

She spat out that last comment as if the unseen Mr. Stephenson drowned puppies in his spare time. I bit my lip. Clearly there was no love lost there. 

“There were a number of small cash gifts to staff and whatnot”, Mr. Huffington-Brand said, “but they are all on hold until our time here is up. There were also five real bequests. That cur Stephenson got one of them for all his sucking up to the old man. He left the young pup all the costumes and other equipment that his late wife had amassed over the years, much good may they do him. He also left a set of cut glassware that I had had my eye on which was most wrong of him, along with a choice of any twelve bottles of wine from the cellar to Hall, the butler. Again, much too generous for mere _servants!”_

 _Possibly because he actually liked them,_ I thought not at all cattily.

“We must check that cellar”, Sherlock said with another annoying nod. “What else please?”

“For the past two years he allowed the local florist Jack Irwindale to use the greenhouse for growing plants in”, Mr. Huffington-Brand said, his tone indicating clear disapproval. _“Highly_ improper; he did not even charge him for it although I think the fellow had to keep the building in good order. He left the entire contents of the place to him. He has been allowed in to tend to them – we had to do that because the will said so - but he has never been left unsupervised.”

 _Or he might decamp with a daffodil, flee with a fuchsia or even trot away with a tulip!_ I thought, not at all cattily. Sherlock gave me yet another look, which was just annoying.

“That will take some searching”, he frowned. “The other two bequests?”

“Sarah, a mere maid but the one with the longest service, got a vanity-box of the late Mrs. Huffington's that she had always liked”, Mr. Huffington-Brand said. “That is the only thing that we did let go, after I had had it valued of course. And incredibly that dreadful Eli Parsons, his valet who retired six months ago, got a _life tenancy_ on the house that he is living in with his sister down in Haworth, it to continue for her if she outlives him. _Far_ too much in my opinion. I have to say that the servants were not overly helpful in our efforts to locate my money.”

 _I wonder why that was_ , I thought again not at all cattily, noting that she referred to it as hers. Sherlock shot me yet another look.

 _Just stop with the mind-reading_ , I thought at him. I jumped when he shook his head slightly.

“Since you have obviously searched the house from top to bottom and found nothing, we must assume that the money was hidden in a form that has thus far eluded you both”, he said thoughtfully. “I shall telegraph my brother Randall and see if he can trace any activity in London on your cousin's behalf over the past year, though I do not hold out much hope there. It seems that he planned everything extremely well.”

“We shall be reduced to living in that ghastly _hovel!”_ the woman sniffed, more than a trifle melodramatically. 

“I shall do my best”, Sherlock promised. “As soon as I get up tomorrow I shall thoroughly search his study, then I shall follow up these bequests.”

I suspected that the horrible couple would rather that he searched the room by candlelight, but they seemed to accept his decision albeit reluctantly, and at that moment the bell summoned us to what turned out to be a decidedly indifferent dinner.

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I stared at my 'room' in a mixture of shock and disappointment. The Huffington-Brands had either not been told of my inclusion in the case or they had just not cared. While Sherlock had a master suite with, impressively, a canopied four-poster bed, I had what was quite obviously a valet's room off to one side in which the single bed took up almost half the floor-space! It was pitiful! Matters were not exactly helped when I came into Sherlock's room and found him sprawling across the bed, enjoying its sheer luxury!

“Have you seen my room?” I groused. “Actually forget the 'room' bit. I think they just shoved a bed in one of the store-cupboards!”

“My room is I suppose acceptable”, he said with a smirk. “Although one can definitely tell that the Huffington-Brands are only employing temporary staff. Still, it will do.”

I pouted. It did not get me a better room, worse luck!

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I had a bad night's sleep. Sherlock had a rule about not sleeping together in other people's houses because one could not trust the staff, although he was fine with us being together in hotels where doors could more reasonably be locked and 'do not disturb' notices left outside. At times like this it was just annoying!

We spent an hour the following morning searching the study of the late Mr. Elisha Huffington. 

“A very thorough man, doctor”, Sherlock said to me as he examined the writing-desk. “Did you talk to the servants for me?”

“I did”, I said. “You were right; all the old staff left after the late Mr. Huffington's death and these are all temporary ones. None of them like 'the Empress' as they call her - _among other things!_ \- but none of them know the servants who they replaced. They are not even from the town; all the local servants refused to come here 'because they knew her'!”

“Not even any gossip”, Sherlock sighed closing a drawer in the desk. “Although I think that we can dismiss the idea of Mr. Huffington not leaving anything at all.”

“Why?” I asked.

“I spoke to one of the delivery-men”, he explained. “The late Mr. Huffington did not like his cousin and her husband – frankly, who would? - but he was a man of strict moral character. All the staff who left had a month's salary to help tide them over; he obviously foresaw that they would get nothing from his cousin. He also had a reputation for always paying his bills on time which was highly appreciated in the town, especially given the way some of the upper class behave these days; his current account was almost empty because he paid all his bills before he died. I do not think that he would have put them in this situation without leaving the money in the house in one form or another, despite their sheer awfulness.”

He straightened up.

“We must look closely at the greenhouse, and at the wine in the cellar”, he said. “I know my wines so I will take the latter, while you go outside and see if you can find anything.”

“What if the money is hidden in the bottom of a plant-pot?” I asked.

“If we assume the money is in the form of pearls or other precious stones, then the only hope is if the pot in question looks recently disturbed”, he said. “Mr. Irwindale is in today, so he can help you, and I am sure that given the circumstances 'the Empress' can provide some staff as well.”

I smiled at that and set off on my task.

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By the end of the day were were both tired and dirty, with greenhouse and cellar both having failed to yield any hidden wealth. Mrs. Huffington-Brand had supplied some servants to shake out every single potted plant in the greenhouse (to the consternation of Mr. Irwindale!) but to no avail. And while some of the wines in the cellar were good-quality ones, none were worth anything even remotely near the fortune we were looking for. The couple were rather brusque at dinner and I could see that their attitude was annoying Sherlock even more. 

We were back in our rooms before he spoke.

“Randall wired me a reply sooner than I expected”, he said. 

“I know”, I said, surprised. “You told us at dinner.”

“He did mention something rather odd which I did not think fitting for the dinner-table”, he said. “Mr. Elisha Huffington had an appointment with a dressmaker in London. A _ladies'_ dressmaker!”

I raised my eyebrows.

“To what end?” I inquired.

“One does wonder”, he said. “But we have an appointment with the legal-minded Mr. Stephenson tomorrow morning and there are now only two days before the deadline. Hopefully he can throw some light on matters. You had best retire to your 'store-cupboard'”.

I pou... scowled. Still no effect.

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I have to say that my reaction to Mr. Neil Stephenson was quite the reverse of that I had towards the Huffington-Brands. He looked even younger than his years – he could not have been much more than twenty - but there was a calm competence about him that I could imagine would reassure his clients. I sat down alongside my friend and waited to see what he would ask.

And waited. 

And waited.

Sherlock seemed lost in thought for some reason. At last he spoke.

“Mrs. Huffington-Brand does not seem overly enamoured of you, sir.”

The young man smiled.

“I am the gentleman who will likely supervise the process of her being reduced from lording it over everyone in a castle, to living in a small house in town”, he said. “Or a 'hovel' as I know she is wont to call it, which definition would surprise many in the street where the house is located. Were our roles reversed I doubt that I would be overflowing with joy and thankfulness.”

I thought wryly that the Huffington-Brands' potential neighbours might also be far from overflowing with joy and thankfulness if that pestilential pair descended on their neighbourhood. 

“You wrote the will for the late Mr. Elisha Huffington?” Sherlock asked, shaking his head at me for some reason.

“I did, sir. I am sure that his cousin and her husband have fully briefed you on its contents. My client did not seek to keep things from them.”

“Except the whereabouts of his fortune”, Sherlock said pointedly. 

“It was his money to leave as he wished”, the young man said easily. “I am glad that I am not possessed of so much wealth. Money does not always bring happiness, as I have seen with more than one client.”

“What would you have done?” Sherlock asked, to my surprise.

“Sir?” The man looked as confused as I felt.

“Hypothetically”, Sherlock said. “If you were possessed of a castle and all that wealth, what would _you_ do with it?”

The young man thought for a moment. 

“I would probably sell the castle”, he admitted. “Mr. Elisha kindly allowed me to stay there one night when my lodgings were flooded out last winter – your clients resented that quite loudly although they said nothing to him about it, of course - and I do not think that I have ever been so cold in my entire life! Although to be fair it was a bedroom in one of the towers. The money is easy; I would see my dear father right first because I owe him everything. Then I would probably invest the remainder for when I marry and have a family of my own.”

“Do you have anyone in particular in mind?” Sherlock asked. 

I wondered at the personal nature which his questioning had taken. The lawyer most definitely blushed at that question.

“There is a lady who lives in Settle”, he admitted. “But she comes from money and although I am fortunate enough for her to return my affections, her father would never countenance such a disparaging match. He is one of the county members of parliament and she is his only daughter. I suppose that if someone left me a massive fortune then that might just make him take a second look at me.”

“One can only live in hope”, Sherlock smiled. “What did you yourself think of the late Mr. Elisha Huffington?”

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“Your personal opinion”, Sherlock said. “You had several dealings with the man, while he is so far little more than a name to us. I would like to know more of him.”

The clerk thought for a moment.

“He was in outward appearance a cold man”, he said, “and sparing with his affections. But he always treated me well, and from something my father once said I have a suspicion that he helped obtain this post for me. It was his idea to provide for all of his servants or at least those who deserved it. They all got cash bequests as well as those that got gifts, but the longer serving ones got more. The only one who missed out was a footman who had been stealing from him; he received but a farthing and was the only one not to get a written reference, too! That is why I call him a fair man; his reputation in the town was far ahead of many in his class especially considering the mess that his class too often leave behind. The wealth that he amassed is somewhere in that castle; he would have considered it a most dishonourable thing to have left his cousin and her husband an impossible task.”

“But not a nearly impossible one”, Sherlock smiled. “Good day, sir. We have already taken up far too much of your valuable time.”

He stood and bowed before sweeping from the room, leaving me trailing in his wake.

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We spent the rest of the day sorting through the theatrical costumes that had been bequeathed to Mr. Stephenson, but unless the old lamp that I found actually had a genie in it I could not see how a load of old clothes helped solve the case. I covertly rubbed the lamp anyway.

“What is it O master?”

I yelped and dropped the lamp on my foot. Sherlock had materialized right behind me, the bastard!

“Do not do that!” I scowled. 

He chuckled while holding up a belt and harness, both bejewelled with rhinestones.

“Imagine Mrs. Huffington-Brand doing the Dance of the Seven Veils!” he grinned. I grimaced.

“I hate you!” I muttered. “I shall not even be able to look at her at dinner tonight, thinking of that.”

“You will not have to”, he said. “She and her husband are having one last grand day out on the estate's money, shopping in London today then travelling back tomorrow afternoon to see if we have solved the case and they can continue in the lifestyle that they think they deserve.”

“Have we solved it?” I asked.

“In a way”, he said. “I have one more question that I should have asked Mr. Stephenson earlier, then we have an interview with someone else tomorrow morning and all should be done. Though I doubt that the Huffington-Brands will be overly pleased at what I have to tell them.”

My eyes alighted on what looked like several straps of leather and I picked it up to discover it was apparently some sort of Roman costume, possibly that of a centurion or a gladiator. Sherlock was ferreting around in a chest with his back to me and I grinned as I imagined the noble gladiator Sherlockus, returning home after yet another victory in the ring to his fellow gladiator Ionus....

I _really_ needed to improve my reading matter.

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The following morning we left the house early and called at Crampton, Utterthwaite & Stephenson just after nine o' clock. We were fortunate enough to catch Mr. Stephenson on his way in but Sherlock told me to wait in the cab as he said that the question he had to ask would take barely a minute. When he returned he called out, “The railway station, please” to the driver. 

“What was your question?” I asked.

“I asked Mr. Stephenson exactly _when_ the late Mr. Elisha Huffington made his last will and testament”, Sherlock said. “He said that it was finalized two weeks before his death. Did you bring your camera as I asked?”

“Yes”, I said. “Is it important?”

“In a way”, he said evasively.

We caught the local train down the Worth Valley, and to my surprise and delight we alighted at the famous Brontë village of Haworth.

“I promise you shall have some time for sightseeing later”, he said with a smile, “hence the camera, but first we must pay a call.”

We walked into the charming little village, turning away from the centre and climbing a steep hill to a small but well-kept terraced house. Sherlock walked up the path and knocked at the door which was opened by an elderly lady with iron-grey hair.

“Good day Miss Parsons”, Sherlock smiled. “My name is Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I would like to speak with you and your brother if I may.”

She looked at him silently for a moment then backed away to let him in. I felt instinctively that Sherlock had found her out in some way although I knew not how. At the table in the single main room an old man sat stiff and alert, clearly having heard my friend's name.

“I do not wish to distress either of you”, Sherlock said reassuringly, “and provided you deal fairly with me I promise that I shall keep both of your names out of what is about to happen. To start, there is something that I would have you tell me. When did Mr. Elisha Huffington come to see you?”

The two looked at each other as if considering whether or not to attempt to bluff their way out of this, but evidently the man decided to make a clean breast of it.

“A week before he passed”, he said. “I met him at the station and took him to meet Flo at my brother's house in town; there was no way he could have managed our hill. I took him all the way back to the castle afterwards too; the whole trip had exhausted the poor fellow.”

“He asked you to do something for him”, Sherlock said. “Was it all legal and above board?”

“It was”, the man said. “He had a lawyer come in from Leeds when those two harpies were away in York for a day and draw the whole thing up legal-like. All that Flo and I had to do was sign it, though he insisted on telling us all what was in it before we did.”

“Where is it?” Sherlock asked.

The lady hesitated only briefly before crossing to a huge dresser, taking a key from her pocket and unlocking a drawer. She extracted what was clearly a will and handed it to Sherlock.

“The _true_ last will and testament which does, I am sure, honour the late Mr. Elisha Huffington's final wishes”, Sherlock said. “Thank you both. It has been a most interesting case.”

He bowed and left the room, and I followed him.

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We lunched at a local tavern and I did get to see several of the great authoresses' landmarks including the famous Parsonage. I did not try to get Sherlock to tell me what he knew, for I knew full well that he would do so in his own good time. 

We returned to Keighley and the castle to find the Huffington-Brands waiting impatiently for us.

“Well?” Mrs. Huffington-Brand demanded. I decided that yes, it was possible to dislike her even more.

“I regret to say that my initial assessment was incorrect”, Sherlock said. “It is my opinion that the wealth you were seeking was indeed shipped out of the castle before your search began, and that your cousin was merely having a final jest at your expense.”

They both stared at him incredulously.

“That is it, Mr. Great Detective?” Mr. Huffington-Brand scoffed. “Hah! Well, we shan't be paying _your_ bill!”

“There will be no bill”, Sherlock said. “A few days of Yorkshire air has been most refreshing. Come doctor. Let us pack and we should be able to catch the last train of the day.”

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“So Mr. Elisha Huffington lied”, I smiled as we sat back having made the train with less than five minutes to spare. “But then what was the reason for the second will?”

“The new will changed one very important thing”, Sherlock said. “After the failure of the Huffington-Brands to find the treasure, it left the castle and estate to someone else.”

“Who?” I asked.

“Mr. Neil Stephenson.”

I stared at him in shock.

“But why him?” I asked. “And why did Mr. Elisha Huffington lie about the wealth?”

“He did not lie”, Sherlock said airily. “I lied. The money is still in the castle, albeit not for long.”

I gaped. 

“Where?” I demanded. He turned to me.

“Do you remember the costume for the Dance of the Seven Veils?” he asked.

I groaned at the reminder.

“There is such a thing as mental scarring, you know!”

“Those rhinestones were not rhinestones”, he said quietly. 

I swallowed hard. That costume must have had about a hundred jewels in it, and if they were all real it had to have been worth an absolute fortune! 

“Mr. Elisha Huffington knew how his cousin and her husband looked down on Mr. Stephenson and his theatrical group”, Sherlock said. “They would never think of looking at mere actors' costumes. I am sure that our young lawyer friend is bright enough to work things out although I called at his work and left him an additional clue to make sure. Our young friend gets the wealth – and more besides.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Do you remember how when we met Mr. Stephenson, I paused for a time before asking him questions?” he asked.

“Yes”, I said.

“I was trying to recall as to why he looked vaguely familiar”, Sherlock said. “When we went back to the castle I knew the minute we stood before the huge portrait of Mr. Elisha Huffington in the main hall who he really was.”

I stared, as the pieces finally fell into place.

“He is the old man's son!” I gasped. He nodded.

“I dare say that Mr. Elisha's own father forced him to leave his illegitimate son at the orphanage”, Sherlock said. “But a father's love cannot be so easily overcome. Once his own father had passed on Mr. Elisha brought his son into the area, secured a surrogate father for him and did everything he could to make his life easier. He could have left everything to him directly but because his cousin and her husband were so unpleasant he took the opportunity to torment them by holding out the prospect of riches before them, knowing that they could never find them.”

“But they brought you in on the case”, I pointed out.

“Alas! I failed them”, he said, managing somewhere less than zero sincerity. “I am sure that life in a small cramped house in town will do them both the world of good, even if their new neighbours may soon be of a slightly different opinion. Plus Mr. Stephenson now has the wherewithal to pursue the lady of his dreams.”

“How could you have known that he was seeing someone?” I wondered. He smiled knowingly.

“There was a faint mark on his neck and a slight bulge in his breast pocket”, he said. “He had clearly been wearing some neck item of jewellery, and for some time to have left a mark, which he had removed yet kept close to his heart. A locket with a picture in it was the most likely thing.”

“The Huffington-Brands may put it about that you failed”, I pointed out.

“Publish their own relative poverty?” he said with a laugh. “I think not. Though you may choose not to publish this case yourself my friend otherwise the British public may start to think I am actually fallible!”

“They are more likely to think that you are actually modest!” I smiled.

He swatted at me as our train rumbled back towards Leeds and the London express.

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Postscriptum: Mr. Stephenson did indeed secure his father's wealth and married his lady; we would be fortunate enough to meet him and his family six years later while revisiting Haworth during Sherlock's solving of the Smith-Mortimer case just over the border into Lancashire. The young lawyer rose to be a partner in his company and established a name for himself as a noted philanthropist across the West Riding.

There was a rather curious epilogue to this case that occurred many years later, but which I shall mention here as it shows that karma can as the saying goes sometimes be a not-nice female personage. Mr. and Mrs. Huffington-Brand had indeed moved to their 'hovel' in the town and lived there for some fifteen years after our departure. It would have been longer but for the rather unfortunate matter of the Leven Viaduct railway disaster. In 1903 a Furness railway train was actually blown off the rails while crossing said viaduct which traverses an inlet off Morecambe Bay. The accident itself claimed a number of injuries but no lives, and the passengers were able to walk to safety to the nearby Ulverston shore, again coincidentally close to where we later had a case (The Adventure Of King Athelstan). Or rather most of them were able to walk there except for one couple at the back who were having a raging argument on the viaduct, just as a second powerful gust of wind came up and...... 

Oh dear how sad never mind.

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	8. Interlude: All That Glisters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1888\. All that glisters is not gold... sometimes it is even better.

_[Narration by Mr. Neil Stephenson, Esquire]_

I was still not sure why Mr. Sherlock Holmes had asked me to bring Ted from the jeweller's with me, but the two of us ascended to the room in the castle where the late Mrs. Huffington had left her theatrical clothing and equipment which was now mine. The consulting detective had dropped a rather strange hint before leaving the area, telling me that 'all that glisters can sometimes be even better than gold; I knew that he had failed to find the late Mr. Huffington's wealth (or, I suspected, had found it and but decided that the atrocious Huffington-Brands did not deserve to know where it was) and wondered if there was something hidden among the costumes.

I had taken perhaps a shade too much pleasure the day before in having George, the local constable, to hand as I saw the unpleasant Huffington-Brands leave Arnsworth for the last time and decamp to the small house the late Mr. Elijah Huffington – my father who, incredulously, had left me this place – had reserved for them. Or as Mrs. Huffington-Brand called it, 'the hovel'. The fact that we had found four cases packed with anything small and valuable just inside the door showed that my cynicism had, as so often with people these days, been fully justified. Apparently all those items had just 'fallen into the open bags'. 

Even as a lawyer, I would not have dared to try that one in court!

“I suppose that since Mr. Holmes asked me to bring you that we are looking for some jewellery piece”, I said. “There must have been one or two here, surely?”

Ted picked up a bejewelled leather harness which made me immediately think Scheherazade and the Thousand And One Nights. It glistened and gleamed even in the poor light from the one small window, and I chuckled at it.

“Overkill and then some”, I smiled. “It must weigh a ton; I doubt the poor girl wearing it could move, let alone dance.”

“Hardly overkill”, Ted said examining some of the stones. “They are all real.”

I stared at him in astonishment.

“But there must be nearly a hundred of the things!” I said.

“Indeed, _my lord_ ”, he grinned. “To think they were sat here all that time within reach of that old bag and her husband, who did not even check them.”

“Well, I am a fair man”, I smiled. “I am sure that it would be only right and proper to tell them about it!”

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Which I did. In person. Who would have thought that even Mrs. Huffington-Brand knew such language?

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	9. Interlude: Through A Glass Darkly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1888\. Reflections of a consulting detective.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

Our recent case in Yorkshire showed me two aspects of my beloved John's character, one of which I had known before and one of which I had been in complete ignorance. His face when I surprised him by arranging some time for him to tour the Brontë village of Haworth had been a picture; indeed I wished that I myself could have grabbed his camera and have recorded that supreme happiness for posterity. He was always so surprised when I did some small thing like that for him, even though I knew that I would have done so much more.

The new revelation was concerning a matter which had been at the back of my mind ever since our exchange of rings on that famous Italian balcony. I had of course known that what John and I had could never be official; Victorian society was such that our relationship would be tolerated only so long as it remained discreet (which was one reason that Mr. Oscar Wilde would later face such calamities as he was several thousand miles from that adjective!). I could accept that prohibition, if grudgingly. But I always feared that someone as handsome as John might grow bored with me as we aged, or worse, decide that he really did desire the Victorian ideal of a wife and children in a small home somewhere without me. The thought chilled me to the bone and I tried not to dwell on it, although I knew that I loved him more than enough to let him go if that had been what he had truly wanted. It would have killed me, but I would have done it. Somehow.

I had only ever seen John truly flustered one time when he had been reading a magazine over my shoulder and I had turned the page to a quite _avant garde_ advertisement for ladies' undergarments. I did not know at the time just why this had so flustered him – as a doctor he must surely have seen much worse, especially given some of his clients! - but I knew that in some way that he was affected by it. In this case just past I had seen that reaction again when he had found that Roman gladiator costume during our searching efforts at Arnsworth Castle and had not noticed the mirror in the corner showing his reflection. I would have been a poor detective had I not been able to put two and two together and reach the obvious conclusion. 

Well well!

There was of course the matter that our relationship had not as yet proceeded to anywhere close to _that_ sort of level. I hoped that one day it might but I knew both that John was not ready for it as of yet, and also that my life was still sufficiently dangerous not to wish to start something with him that might hurt him emotionally were I to suddenly get myself killed, as was all too likely given my profession. Also I had not told him of my twin brother's warnings of all the troubles that still lay ahead of us.

We would get our own happily ever after. Somehow.

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	10. Case 141: The Adventure Of The Stockbroker’s Clerk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1888\. London, the financial capital of the world. But where there is money there will always be chancers who will be all too eager to part people from that money – and sometimes they can manifest in the strangest of guises.

Foreword: My excellent readers, who always show such good taste in buying my stories, were quick to point out that the title of this particular adventure was erroneous as it should have been 'Stockbrokers' Clerk'. Which it should have been – except that someone at the printing company moved the apostrophe without informing anyone. I have kept the original title as it is still arguably suitable, if less so than the amended version.

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_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

It might truly be said that it never rains but it pours, and at one of the busiest times in Sherlock's long and illustrious career the Fates tossed another straw onto the camel's back. Once again this matter, though small, showed the greatness of my friend's heart.

I have mentioned before how both Sherlock and I had been dreading the day, due less than two months from now, when both the Great Cake-Detectors of London Town – I mean Gregson and LeStrade - would complete their 'time' as sergeants and could apply to be promoted to inspector. Their shared passion for cake apart (Mrs. Hudson had actually asked me to take a slice of cake when visiting an injured LeStrade the previous month, and quite unfairly had demanded a receipt just because it was chocolate!) the two disliked each other intensely and the only worse prospect of one being promoted and the other not was that the winner would end up at the same station as the loser, and one way or another Sherlock would have a murder investigation on his hands!

Unhappily events this month, although they ended that prospect, bore down hard on poor Gregson. His wife Mary had been ill throughout that long, cold winter and although she had rallied at the start of March she died on the eighth. At the same moment the Metropolitan Police Service suddenly found itself minus one inspector over a scandal involving the fabrication of evidence, and the normally slow interview process was speeded up just as Gregson was in no state to put himself forwards. Indeed had it not been for some intervention from Sherlock he would not even have been allowed any time off to organize his late wife's funeral! When I see the increasing numbers of stuffed shirts at the top of the Metropolitan Police Service, I think that someone really needs to get their priorities right!

LeStrade was one of five who applied for the post, and Sherlock told me that there was the usual background manoeuvring by supporters of the various candidates. This was of course inevitable, but my friend had to intervene when one candidate's backers openly tried to bribe their fellow's path to promotion. Fortunately the force saw sense for once (or at least Sherlock's 'advice' to them was heeded) and LeStrade was duly promoted. Even better, Sherlock told me that a second vacancy at inspector level would be happening when the newspapers found out what one senior officer was up to with questionable ladies over Fulham way, a position that would arise shortly after Gregson's return to work. I was pleased, although I could have done without Sherlock providing me with all the details of said departing inspector. 

I had used to _like_ cucumber!

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Sherlock had to deal with people from all strata of society in his job as a detective, as the recent cases in Yorkshire had amply demonstrated. I had hoped that there would have been time for him to have a rest after two trips North in rapid succession, but only four days after our return from his 'failed' treasure-hunt he was asked to investigate a case of financial chicanery whose outcome shook the City of London to its very foundations.

The gentleman sat in the fireside chair at 221B was Mr. Christopher Goode, one of three co-owners of the most well-known firm of stockbrokers in the City of London. It was said that he and his elder twin brothers Robert and Richard knew enough financial secrets between them to bring the whole City to a juddering halt; indeed when the newspapers mentioned _the_ Goodfellows, everyone knew exactly to whom they were alluding. 

Having said all that, Mr. Christopher Goode currently looked far from the City high-flyer who featured regularly across the financial pages of the Times. Indeed he looked positively anxious.

“Poor Robert is beside himself with worry”, he said, wringing his hands. “He is saying that the whole sorry business is all his fault. And the calamity has quite set Richard’s recovery back weeks if not more.”

Sherlock smiled and poured our visitor a whisky. I was already worried about this case; this fellow had to be organized as part of his livelihood so what had been bad enough to reduce him to this state?

“Why not start at the beginning?” my friend said gently. “If we have _all_ the facts then maybe the doctor and I can help you.”

The stockbroker managed to pull himself together, albeit with an effort. He was a smartly-dressed fellow in his early forties, a trifle gaunt with greying hair and a well-groomed moustache. He sighed unhappily.

“I am sure that you know a little of my family circumstances, sirs”, he began. “My stepfather Mr. Wilberforce Goode, an excellent stockbroker in his own right, married young and his wife May died giving birth to my step-brothers Richard and Robert. My own father Mr. Theobald Weeks had died when I was but fourteen years of age. My mother Eunice was left to raise me alone and a friend recommended Mr. Wilberforce Goode to help her with our few investments. They married two years later and I have had nothing but love and respect from my new family; that was why I took their name when I came of age. My stepfather retired to the country last year, leaving his business to the three of us.”

I nodded; I knew most of this from the social pages that I may on occasion have very briefly glanced at in passing if the 'Times' just happened to be open at the right page. Only once in a while, unlike what a certain blue-eyed genius was wont to remark on!

'Someone' was smiling for no good reason, damn him!

“Was there not a fourth brother at one point?” I asked, scowling at the resident mind-reader in the room. Our guest blushed horribly.

“My stepfather and mother had tried to adopt a young boy shortly after they had met”, he said. “His name was Matthew, Price if I recall correctly. But it did not work out at all well. The boy tended towards violence and he had to be returned to the orphanage after only a few weeks. I have of course never met him, at least as an adult.”

 _But would you recognize him if you saw him now?_ I wondered.

“I see”, Sherlock said, shaking his head for some reason. “Pray continue.”

“Eight months ago Richard fell ill and the doctor advised complete bed-rest”, our guest said. “It was an exceptionally busy time so his absence was decidedly awkward, as we needed all three of us to share the heavy workload. We tried one fellow but he proved _quite_ unsatisfactory, as for some inexplicable reason he concerned himself more with the demands of his fiancée than the needs of our company!”

“Shocking!” I muttered. Sherlock shot me a warning look clearly suspecting that I was being sarcastic, but I stared innocently back at him. He shook his head at me but smiled.

“Indeed so”, our guest said, apparently missing my excellent display of sardonicity. “Then a friend of Robert's recommended someone to us. It was very timely; Richard had just had a relapse – neither of them are good at following their doctor's advice, I am sorry to say - and Robert insisted on sending his brother to the country to recuperate, much as he did not want to go. The new man’s name was Mr. Noah Hailes and he did indeed prove most useful.”

“Until of course he ran off with your funds”, Sherlock said blithely.

I feared for a moment that our guest was going to faint. He stared at Sherlock as if he could not believe what he was hearing.

“How could you know that?” he gasped.

“Elementary, my dear sir”, Sherlock smiled. “You placed this man in a position of trust and he abused it. You and your brothers are known for guarding your secrets fiercely which is one of the reasons that your company is so successful, yet you came to an outsider for help. How bad is it?”

Our guest put his head in his hands.

“If we cannot find the man within seven days it will be the ruination of the business, he said. “Robert says that we can dissolve the company before this happens which will preserve our own financial situations to some extent, but all the people who invest with us will be ruined!”

Sherlock looked at him shrewdly. I too had spotted the obvious.

“Precisely what do you mean by ‘to some extent’, sir?” my friend asked coolly.

“Richard is the legal expert of us three”, our guest explained, “and the company is set up in such a way that we get first call on any assets if there is a crash. But all those people trusted me, Mr. Holmes, and I have let them down! I can never hold my head up in public again!”

He seemed to be verging on the hysterical. I thought of my own few investments and felt more for the people who relied on men like this than the man himself even if he did 'feel' for them. At least he would have all that money to help him through it; the rich always looked after themselves.

“Calm down, sir”, Sherlock said firmly. “Now, why do you say seven days? What happens a week from now that is so important?”

I handed Mr. Goode another whisky which he downed quickly. At least all his money would be useful when it came to Sherlock's bill, drinks included!

“The bonds stolen by Mr. Hailes were signed into his and Robert’s joint names”, he explained. “As such he can cash them himself only after eight days have elapsed from the transfer. Since that was yesterday we have seven days remaining to find him. Unfortunately he can cash them anywhere in the British Empire so I can but presume that he has left the country for one of our dominions. Even the most expensive passage to Australia would put barely a dent in their value.”

“Could he not cash them outside the Empire?” Sherlock asked.

“He could”, our guest admitted, “but he would receive only a fraction of their true value if he did so. As I am sure you are aware Mr. Holmes, other countries have trodden more warily around Britannia after the Don Pacifico Incident, and quite right too. No, it would be far easier for him to evade detection for just one week, possibly using that to be on his way to some far-flung colony or dominion and most certainly under a false name.”

Sherlock thought for a moment. 

“Can you tell me a little about your and your brothers’ working arrangements?” he said at last. “I would like to know exactly where this 'Mr. Hailes' fitted into things before you continue with your fascinating tale.”

Our guest nodded.

“Richard and Robert run the main office in the City itself”, he explained. “I run a smaller office for our richer clients in the West End, not far from Berkeley Square where I live. Mr. Hailes worked in the City office although he did come over to my building with documents about twice a week on average. I myself hardly ever met him.”

“Why not?” I asked, surprised.

”My office is primarily so we can boast a business address in the West End”, our visitor explained. “The sort of clients whom I serve tend to expect me to visit them in their own houses, so I am out more often that not. Mr. Hailes always came first thing in the morning as he had a list of clients of his own to visit. I am not exactly a morning person, I must admit.”

 _Like someone else I could name Before Coffee_ , I thought with a smile. I caught Sherlock looking suspiciously at me and blushed. 

“What did you think of him?” Sherlock asked, giving me a look that said quite clearly that we would be discussing matters later. I swallowed nervously.

“I beg your pardon?” Our guest looked surprised. 

“What was your opinion of the man?” Sherlock reiterated. “So far he is little more than a name to us. Describe him if you will.”

Our guest hesitated.

“He was never rude to me”, he said, as if he was picking his words carefully, “but on the few occasions that we met I got the impression that he did not really wish to talk. Though as I said, he had lots of other work to do as well as delivering papers to my office so I supposed that that was understandable. Our clients pay handsomely enough that they become irritable if a missive arrives just ten minutes after they think it should!”

“His physical appearance”, Sherlock prompted.

“He is about my age or perhaps a few years older, very well-turned out and uses a walking-stick which I think is mostly affectation. Dark hair which may have been greying as I think that he dyed it; I noticed a small stain on his collar one time which I know can be caused by the use of certain chemicals. He has a full beard which my secretary always complained looked rather sinister but then she does tend towards the imaginative. He wears those coloured spectacles that they advise for certain eye conditions nowadays. And if I may be so bold, he smelled.”

“Alcohol?” I asked, surprised. Mr. Goode looked astonished at such a suggestion.

“We would _never_ have employed him in that instance, sir!” he said firmly. “No, what I meant was that he preferred one of those colognes that some men think are socially acceptable nowadays. I can accept a little of that sort of thing but he must have bathed in the stuff! Pear's Soap has always been good enough for me; I am only glad that he did not come into the main room and stand anywhere near the fire when he called.”

Sherlock smiled for some reason.

“You are very observant, sir”, he said.

“I deal with large sums of money and sometimes have to make judgements on whether to trust people in a matter of minutes, sir”, our visitor explained. “I often find that the little things are very revealing.”

“You did not mention that he also has freckles and a birthmark”, Sherlock said. Our guest looked at him in surprise.

“Yes, several freckles and a small but distinctive mark on his jaw”, he said, “How did you know that?”

“It seemed quite probable”, Sherlock said with a knowing smile. “Tell me, does your brother Robert know that you have come here today?” 

“I could not tell him”, the man said. “He has gone down to the country to visit Richard and he does not like to be disturbed when he is away for anything short of a financial crash. The two of them are very close and I know that poor Robert feels his twin’s illness deeply.”

“Are they identical twins?” I asked.

“No”, he said, “just fraternal. Physically they are quite dissimilar.”

“Would it be improper of me to ask where your ailing sibling has retreated to for his convalescence?” Sherlock asked.

“He has a small house called 'Archenfield' a few miles south of the town of Ross-on-Wye in Herefordshire. It is Robert's country retreat; none of us really like large houses. He said in a telegram that I received just before leaving that Richard was a lot better, and they would likely travel back to the capital tomorrow afternoon.”

“That is interesting”, Sherlock smiled. Our guest looked at him anxiously. 

“Mr. Holmes, why all these questions about my brothers? You surely cannot think…..” 

“This Mr. Hailes targeted _your_ company”, Sherlock said, “and at exactly the right time. He took advantage of your brother Richard’s illness then made himself trustworthy enough to the point where he had access to a large sum of money. It is quite possible from the timing that he obtained information from an insider, possibly a servant employed by one of you; we all know how servants overhear things that they are not supposed to. By the by, why _was_ he entrusted with so much money so soon after starting?”

That question also seemed to upset our guest. He blushed fiercely.

“That was partly my fault”, he admitted. “Robert and I were supposed to sign the bonds when they came in one Tuesday but I overindulged at dinner at his house the night before and was off work all that day. We were forced to let Mr. Hailes sign, otherwise we would have lost the chance to have them.”

“You seem to have lost rather more than that”, Sherlock observed. “You said earlier that this Mr. Hailes worked at your brother’s office in the City. Do you have access to that office?”

“Of course”, Mr. Goode said, clearly surprised at the question.

“I would very much like to see where this fellow worked”, Sherlock said. “Would it be possible for you to take us there today?”

“If you think that it would help solve the case”, the man said.

“Excellent!” Sherlock smiled. “We shall partake of the refreshment provided by the redoubtable Mrs. Hudson, then we shall take a cab to the scene of the crime!”

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The main offices of Goode Bros, Stockbrokers was a building not dissimilar to 221B except with pale yellow bricks and burgundy corners instead of off-white with black. The only real exterior difference was a small unobtrusive plaque on the outside proclaiming the company name. On the other hand, with renown like theirs I supposed that any ostentation would have been superfluous. 

Mr. Goode unlocked the front door and bade us both enter.

“Mr. Hailes had his office on the first floor”, he explained. “Like most firms we adopted what I believe is called the Strata Approach, namely the more important the clients are, the higher they ascend.”

I could see what he meant by the state of the ground floor which was plain if serviceable. The only thing that I thought slightly out of place was a black Greek urn almost as tall as I was which loomed in a dark corner. It looked as if it rather belonged on one of the dubious stalls out of Petticoat Lane and was large enough to conceal a dead body which.... I really needed to improve my reading material. 

_And to change my annoying friends who smirked far too much! Harrumph!_

When we ascended to the first floor I noted the rise in quality of the surroundings; the walls were dressed with a better quality paper and the furniture was of a much higher standard, though clearly still not the best. At least there were no large jars standing around.

Mr. Goode unlocked a small side-door and bade us enter the office of the absconding clerk. It seemed an unremarkable place and I stared around the room for some time before I realized what was missing. There were no personal touches; photos, mementos or anything.

“Did Mr. Hailes not have a personal life?” I wondered. 

Sherlock smiled at me and I knew instinctively that I had asked a good question. Though as per usual I had not the slightest idea as to why.

“He was given up for adoption and struggled to make ends meet until he was fifteen”, Mr. Goode told us. “He was very open about it at his interview, Robert told me, although naturally he checked up on him to make sure. At that age his natural father died and bequeathed him a small allowance, enough to secure a small place in London and for him to seek work as a clerk. He worked for two years at Barlow, Heinz & Heinz before being forced to leave.”

“Forced?” Sherlock asked at once. Our host reddened.

“Mr. Barlow’s daughter, Iris”, he said. “She, I believe the colloquialism is, ‘tipped her hat’ at him and he rejected her advances. He was not the first clerk to leave that firm under such circumstances; indeed he took the precaution of telling them that he was emigrating.”

“A little extreme”, I smiled.

“Miss Iris Barlow pursued the last clerk even after he left”, Mr. Goode said wryly. “I believe that he still resides somewhere in the Far North of Scotland!”

Sherlock set about searching the room though what he hoped to find I could only begin to guess. Mr. Goode took the opportunity to show me the top floor which as I had guessed was markedly opulent. After about fifteen minutes we were joined by the great detective who let out a sigh.

“Any hope?” Mr. Goode asked. Sherlock looked at him in surprise.

“Yes, I know where Mr. Hailes is”, he said airily.

“What?” the stockbroker almost yelled.

“Calm down sir”, Sherlock smiled. “It is after all fairly obvious.”

“How?” I demanded, narrowly beating our host to the same question.

Sherlock reached into his pocket and produced a handful of items. I recognized a tube of some sort of glue, an almost empty spray-bottle of cologne, a small snuff-box and what looked like two make-up pens of the types used by ladies. 

“These tell me exactly where Mr. Hailes is currently residing”, Sherlock said cheerfully. “Indeed were your brother not planning to return tomorrow I would be tempted to go down to Herefordshire and tell him the good news.”

“I shall send him a telegram”, Mr. Goode said.

“I would advise you not to”, Sherlock said. At our host's surprised expression he continued, “remember what I said about Mr. Hailes possibly having 'a spy in your camp'. If one of your brothers' servants is indeed in his pay – and I deem it a possibility giving the high stakes that he is playing for – then they may well be able to alert him to any danger. As I said earlier, servants always seem able to overhear what their masters would wish they had not.”

“I shall put myself totally in your hands, Mr. Holmes”, our client said.

“Excellent!” Sherlock said. “Tell me Mr. Goode, where do you yourself usually go to recuperate at stressful times like these?”

The man looked surprised.

“I visit my aunt in Southwold, down on the Suffolk coast”, he said. “She runs a small bed and breakfast place there called 'Vermont House', right on the seafront.”

“Suffolk is certainly bracing at this time of year”, Sherlock smiled. “What will your brother Richard most likely do on his return to the capital, do you think?”

Our client thought for a moment.

“He has a house in Orpington, in the county of Kent”, he said. “I always send a report there on anything that has happened during any absences, so I am sure that he will go there.”

“Then that is where we shall see the conclusion to this fascinating case”, Sherlock beamed. “If you care to provide us with your card Mr. Goode, I shall telegraph you either this evening or tomorrow with further details. But do not worry. The bonds are safe enough.”

I could see that the man was more than a little dubious but he handed over his card, and Sherlock ushered me from the room.

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The following day we had an earlier than usual lunch courtesy of the excellent Mrs. Hudson and around midday took a cab to London Bridge Station, where we met Mr. Christopher Goode. Sherlock refused to satisfy our curiosities but purchased three first-class return tickets to Orpington and ushered us onto the platform. A short train ride and even shorter cab journey later we were walking up the drive of 'Dioscuri House' where we found the local sergeant, a tall bluff fellow called Willetts, waiting for us. I noted there were two of the latter’s officers standing to one side and wondered that Sherlock had not reminded me to bring my own gun. I had it anyway.

A footman ushered us into the house and we sat in the lounge awaiting the return of Mr. Robert Goode. Sherlock poked around the room while I and Mr. Goode discussed events of the day. Finally after what seemed an interminable wait we heard the sound of someone in the corridor outside and footsteps approaching the room. More than one set of footsteps.

Two men stepped through the door and I could tell at once that they were the Goode twins, even though they were as stated not identical. The taller gentleman frowned when he saw us.

“Christopher”, he said, a warning note in his voice. “What is the meaning of this?”

Sherlock stepped forward.

“Mr. Robert Goode?” he asked.

“That depends on who is asking”, the fellow said suspiciously. “Who the blazes are you?”

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes, at your service.”

The man went pale and glared at his stepbrother.

“What have you done, Christopher?” he demanded, his voice harsh.

“Your brother employed me to find the missing Mr. Noah Hailes”, Sherlock said with a smile. “I have done so.”

“Where is he?” Mr. Christopher Goode demanded at once. 

Sherlock had moved round to stand behind Mr. Richard Goode. Before the man could react my friend had slipped on a pair of handcuffs, then he held a false beard and a pair of spectacles up just in front of the man's frightened face. Mr. Christopher Goode gasped in recognition. 

“Sergeant, doctor, may I introduce 'Mr. Noah Hailes'”, Sherlock said with an easy smile. “Please note gentlemen that my friend the doctor is armed, and the policemen you see here will shortly be escorting the two of you to somewhere a little less salubrious than this estimable abode.”

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It was some time later. We had left 'Dioscuri House', Sherlock promising Sergeant Willetts that he would get LeStrade to call and collect Mr. Christopher Goode’s statement at his London house – not his office, which was considerate of him - later that day. Once we were safely ensconced on our train back to London our client not unnaturally demanded answers. Sherlock say back and smiled.

“The first thing that struck me was _cui bono?_ Who actually benefited from the crime apart from the renegade Mr. Hailes? Neither you nor your brothers would _suffer_ but that is not the same thing at all. So I asked myself, what if Mr. Hailes was merely a chimaera, someone whose main aim was to secure those bonds? That would mean he had to be in the employ of one of you as that person would then get not only their share of the business but the bonds as well. A double portion of a very large pie.”

“It was your brother Robert who gave you mild food poisoning at the dinner that evening so that ‘Mr. Hailes’ had to stand in for you and sign for the bonds. Next, the fact that your new employee seemed to be taking measures to avoid you suggested he was fearful that he might be recognized, although he had to let you see him a few times to establish his character. Then there were the five clues in his room.”

“I do not see how that helped”, Mr. Goode complained. “Although I did wonder at the white powder residue on the outside of that box. I am sure that my stepbrother, criminal although he apparently is, did not indulge in drugs.”

“He did not”, Sherlock smiled. “The box contained talcum powder, to make his skin more pale.”

“The other items?” I asked.

“They were a barrage of small things to mark differences between the fake 'Mr. Hailes' and your brother Richard”, Sherlock explained. “The cleverest one, in my opinion, was the cologne. People are not aware just how important the sense of smell is for humans. That someone of your new clerk's age and appearance used such a product – and to that extent! - seemed strange but in reality it was for when he met you. You smelled it and the cologne subconsciously reinforced the differences between your brother and 'Mr. Hailes'. Otherwise you may have come to notice that they were of the same height and physical appearance.”

“What about the glue?” Mr. Goode asked. “What was that for?”

“To adhere the fake beard”, Sherlock said. “There were also a small number of tiny hairs in one of the draws which, when Sergeant Willetts has them tested, will be shown to be from a fake beard. I have no doubt that that item was burnt in a fire in Herefordshire once there was no longer any need for 'Mr. Hailes'.”

“And the make-up pens?” I asked.

“One for the birthmark”, Sherlock said. “I deduced such a mark because you would notice it and it would further separate the two men in your mind. The other was to make the clerk look more even less like the man playing him by adding freckles to his skin.”

“But what about his references?” Mr. Goode pointed out. “I myself heard about Miss Barlow, and not just from my brothers.”

Sherlock smiled.

“Your brother misled you there”, he said. “That was a true story, and it was easy for your brother to suggest that a second gentleman had been forced to flee the advancing tide of matrimony.”

“I cannot thank you enough, Mr. Holmes”, our client said with a smile. “And all my clients – presuming they still want to employ a firm for whom two-thirds of its owners are now criminals – they owe you a huge debt of thanks for saving their financial souls.”

Sherlock smiled at him as the train rumbled over the many viaducts and into the city.

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Postscriptum: The blow to Goode Bros. from the ensuing publicity was a heavy one and I was sure (although he never confirmed it) that Sherlock persuaded his father to steer several prominent clients to the form to help tide them over. Both Richard and Robert Goode were sent to jail for a long time and when they emerged many years later they emigrated to South America, which was frankly a good riddance. Perhaps we should have sent Miss Barlow after them!

I must also state in all fairness that I had very much misread our client's character, for Mr. Christopher Goode used a substantial amount of his own savings to help those clients of his who had suffered due to his stepbrothers' financial malfeasance. A few years later and once things had settled down, he sold his company and retired. Frankly I did not blame him.

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	11. Case 142: The Adventure Of The Naval Treaty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1888\. A number of the cases that Sherlock solved involved members of the animal kingdom, and in particular household pets. Here it was a dog which might well have caused an international incident but ended up 'just' causing some grievous bodily harm - thankfully to someone who completely and utterly deserved it.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

One of the frequent criticisms that I received from readers of my original stories was that I would tantalize the public with hints of cases only to then fail to publish them. I resolved to try to avoid such a thing this time round but this is one of the occasions when I must bend that rule to describe the events following our encounter with the 'Bad Goodes'. Immediately after that case, Sherlock had a important if short (two days!) case involving a figure high up in the British political establishment, and while he solved it easily enough it involved meetings with his brother Randall which always took it out of him. Why he would not let Mrs. Hudson install those man-traps which she had found in a catalogue that I may or may not have given her was frankly beyond me!

The pressure on my friend since our return from the Continent had been unremitting, and my feeling that he was overdoing things grew steadily as the year progressed. That feeling became a certainty when I returned one afternoon to find a private carriage drawn up outside 221B. That and the look of disapproval on our landlady's face when I entered confirmed my worst fears. The oleaginous lounge-lizard had called again, damnation!

I was about to mount and discover the worst when to my surprise Mrs. Hudson beckoned me into her private rooms. Somewhat unnerved I followed; at these times I always thought about that pistol, although I was moderately certain that I myself had done nothing to incur the lady's displeasure of late otherwise either I or my backside would have been made aware of that fact. Once we were inside she closed the door firmly and bade me sit down.

“Doctor”, she began, “I am worried about our dear boy.”

I smiled at her use of 'our', let alone the fact that my friend was only a year younger than our landlady (having a strong desire to actually see tomorrow, I did not say that!). Sherlock seemed to always evoke one of two reactions from the female gender, either a wish to mother him from some ladies or – regrettably far more common - eyeing up as a potential partner, often from those who were already married and sometimes even with their husband standing right next to them! I much preferred the former. 

“With all this work he seems more tired of late”, I agreed. “I presume that his brother Randall is here?”

She pursed her lips as if tasting something foul.

“That ‘personage’ plays far too much on our dear boy's generous nature”, she said, sounding quite venomous in her dislike of our visitor. “He is a Bad Influence. But the reason that I called you in was because I found the dear boy asleep when I went up this afternoon.”

“An afternoon nap is not unusual, Mrs. Hudson”, I observed.

“I know”, she said, “but he never used to take them. This is the third time since you came back from the Continent that I have found him thus, and on two occasions it looked as if he had fallen asleep while reading something, judging from the book lying on the floor. He needs taking better care of by those who are _close_ to him.”

Our landlady looked at me pointedly. She would have had to have been deaf, dumb and blind not to have known that we were something more than just two gentlemen sharing a set of rooms, and she was far from any of those things. I thought once more of that pistol and swallowed nervously.

“I had better go up and see if he is all right”, I said, standing up. “I shall watch him more closely in future, Mrs. Hudson. I promise.”

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I knew that Mr. Randall Holmes was fully aware that I was not overly fond of him (and that was putting it mildly!) for he looked quite defensive when I entered the room. I observed my friend and noted that he did indeed look both tired and run-down. I made a mental note that I would find a way to get him some rest after whatever his brother was here to demand (not 'ask', of course). I only hoped that it was important enough to warrant the presence of the unmitigated pest.

The lounge-lizard sat back in the fireside chair.

“Now that your precious doctor friend is here”, he said sounding more than a little put out, “I can _finally_ begin.”

It warmed me that Sherlock had made the irritating pest wait for my return but I hid it by turning to my desk for my notebook and pen before taking my seat at the table. Mr. Randall Holmes eyed me sharply, clearly resenting my presence but knowing full well that he had no way of avoiding it. And that made me feel even better though I managed to refrain from openly smirking.

All right, it was only a _small_ smirk! And 'someone' could stop looking at me like that!

“This is going to sound bizarre even by your standards, Sherlock”, our pestilential visitor began, “but I need your help to find a lost dog.”

I froze in mid-writing, wondering if I had heard correctly. Sherlock of course remained unperturbed.

“I presume that there is a reason for such an unusual request?” he said levelly. His brother nodded.

“It is a long story”, he said, sitting back. “It goes back to the government’s purchase of the Khedive’s shares in the Suez Canal in 1875 which, as I am sure you remember, did not go down at all well with our Gallic cousins.”

That was very true, as I knew from my own time in Egypt. Mr. Ferdinand de Lesseps had been strongly opposed by we British in his efforts to push his canal across the desert to link the Mediterranean and the Red Sea, our Nation preferring to use the land crossing through the nearby Holy Land where we had more influence. The canal had been finished some nineteen years ago and the British government's sudden acquisition of a large part of it some six years after had enraged Paris, as they had long considered Egypt to be 'their area'. The Berlin Conference had sorted out matters somewhat but as I also knew from my own experience, the seemingly interminable revolt in the Sudan had made the French look again at the possibility of linking their eastern and western African holdings and thus preventing us from establishing control along a north to south axis. Old enmities died hard.

“Went down like a lead baguette”, I muttered. Sherlock smiled at that.

“We were fortunate that the French were still reeling from having Prussian troops marching through Paris a few years before”, his brother went on, glaring at me presumably for having dared to speak in his glorious presence. “Since then the three Great Powers of Western Europe have played a diplomatic _pas de trois;_ France and Great Britain have been edging steadily closer while Germany has been doing its level best to keep them apart. Another Franco-German war would be disastrous if the Hun won as they could then take the industrial north-east of their old enemy and pretty much cripple them, plus they would be a even larger power – in terms of national population and area – than ourselves. Worse, they might even try to drag Belgium in and seize the Scheldt.”

“Do you think such a war is likely?” I asked dubiously. Great Britain was a guarantor of Belgium's independence because of that huge natural bay which offered the perfect base for any invasion of the British Isles, though while Britannia still ruled the waves that was clearly off the cards. But the great strides in naval technology of recent decades had made keeping control of the world's trade routes increasingly harder (and costlier) for our Nation, and had not that blackguard Napoleon once said but six hours' control of the Channel would make him master of England? 

Fortunately the Royal Navy had not even given him six minutes!

“I believe that such a war it is almost certain”, our visitor said. “The new German emperor† may be our dear Queen’s son-in-law but he is not long for this world, and his son and heir is far too militaristic. He is Frederick the Great in deed rather than just name!”

“How does a lost dog come into all this?” Sherlock asked.

“We are currently negotiating a new settlement with the French over our interests around Egypt”, our guest sighed. “It is _not_ going well. There is a strong faction in Paris which resents the fact that while they built the canal which we were totally against, it is now our influence that is strongest in the area.”

He glanced across at me. I did not immediately guess why but Sherlock shot to his feet.

“If you utter one single word about John that questions either his trustworthiness or his patriotism”, he snarled, “I shall physically remove you from this room by either the door or the window! You will also be barred from my presence for a full year, international emergencies or no international emergencies!”

Mr. Randall Holmes actually recoiled from his brother’s anger. Sherlock very rarely lost his temper but he could be scary when roused. 

“I am sure that he is both trustworthy and patriotic”, the unmitigated nuisance said quickly if insincerely. “In addition to the public talks between the prime ministers of both countries, a private deal is being struck. It is not just the Germans that we have to deal with; rumours are that the Russians are looking to massively increase the size of their navy and under the Two-Power Rule‡ the British economy would find it hard if not impossible to pay for the necessary expansion of our Fleet, especially given how expensive modern ships are. Not to mention the fast-growing United States; if they ever took up an arms race against us we would come a poor second. We could even find ourselves losing control of the seas if we and the French somehow found ourselves on opposite sides in a future war.”

“That is unlikely, surely?” I asked. “Not with the threat from Germany.”

“Hence we are seeking to take the French out of the equation”, Mr. Randall Holmes explained. “They promise not to enter an arms race with us and we give them technology, naval protection where we are stronger and some trade concessions. In any future conflict their ships could focus on the Mediterranean while ours patrol the northern seas; strength in depth against Berlin in both theatres.”

“Does that not rather leave us dependent on a permanent alliance with a recent former enemy?” Sherlock queried, still glaring at his brother. “Rather unwise, bearing in mind there are so many points of conflict between our empires.”

His brother groaned.

“Yet despite all that, the thing threatening to bring the whole house of cards down around our ears?” he said. “A bloody Pekingese dog!”

We both looked at him, waiting for further elucidation.

“The leading French diplomat in the negotiations – the secret ones – is an oily little fellow called Monsieur Gilles Rosberg. I know, a German-sounding name but he comes from Lorraine which the French lost in the recent war. He hates the Germans with a passion – he lost his ancestral family home because of them - but unfortunately we managed to incite his one other passion; his dog, Montmorency. He brought it with him for the last round of talks and it ran away.”

“If someone saddled me with that for a name, I would run away too!” I muttered. Sherlock smiled at me.

“They were at Totteridge, the prime minister’s Hertfordshire retreat last week for discussions about the naval treaty”, our visitor went on, scowling at my witticism. “Monsieur Rosberg, his wife and secretary were staying in a small cottage on the edge of the estate along with both their security detail and a British one. He brought the dog to the house for talks and it was allowed to run free with the other dogs in the garden. That was when it got away.”

“The French are prepared to throw away a treaty because of a _dog?”_ I asked dubiously.

“I think that Mademoiselle Rosberg is the driving force behind it”, Mr. Randall Holmes sighed. “The dog is legally hers, not her husband’s, and she is devastated by the loss. I am not usually terrified by the fairer sex but I would not wish to be on the wrong side of that lady for any length of time! She and her husband have returned to France but they have insisted that their secretary remain at the cottage and continue searching for the missing mutt.”

Sherlock looked up sharply. I wondered why; there had not seemed to have been anything unusual in that last statement.

“How long does he plan to stay there?” he asked.

“I would presume at least until the Rosbergs call for him”, his brother said, “when they return for further talks next week.” 

“What day?” Sherlock pressed.

“Thursday.” Our visitor looked sharply at his brother. “Sher, what do you know?”

I was silently overjoyed to see the look of utter annoyance on Mr. Randall Holmes’ face. Whether or not Sherlock actually did know something it was always highly pleasurable to see his lounge-lizard of a brother irritated. My friend stared pointedly at his brother and I could actually hear the latter grinding his teeth in frustration.

Yes, I smirked. And?

“Sher _lock_ , what do you know?” the pest said, clearly reluctantly.

“Are the Rosbergs aware of your involvement in the matter?” Sherlock asked.

“No”, his brother said, “although they may reason that the government might consult you.”

“Who is this faithful servant who stays in a foreign country to search for his mistress’s beloved dog?” Sherlock asked.

“A Monsieur Charles de Bréhaut”, his brother answered. “Not an Anglophile by any stretch of the imagination; he has been with the family for decades. He was Monsieur Rosberg’s father’s secretary for a few years before he became the son's.”

 _“John_ and I will investigate this case for you, Randall”, Sherlock said with a smile. “We will spend tomorrow and Wednesday morning sorting out matters and should have some news for you by Wednesday afternoon if all goes to plan.”

“What are you going to do?” his brother demanded. Sherlock shook his head at him.

“Governments have their secrets and so do consulting detectives”, he said cryptically. “Especially from vexatious government officials who deliberately use nicknames that they know are not liked. Good day.”

Mr. Randall Holmes looked very much as if he wanted to push the matter but he clearly surmised (correctly, in my opinion) that he had no chance of getting anything further from his little brother. With a sigh he got up and left. 

“You enjoyed that”, I said in a slightly accusatory tone once we were alone. He smiled at me.

“I shall need my faithful friend tomorrow and Wednesday if the surgery can spare you”, he said, sounding tentative as always. As if I would not always put him before the demands of a load of strangers for about half of whom paying their doctor's bill was seen as some sort of optional extra. 

“Of course”, I smiled.

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The following day we set out after breakfast, but instead of travelling north as I had expected Sherlock instructed our driver to head towards the Museum at Kensington.

“I am meeting someone there”, he explained. “A Mr. Frances Galton. He is a most extraordinary man.”

I pursed my lips. While I had read of that gentleman’s many achievements in the fields of mathematics and science, he had also been responsible for formalizing and giving some credence to the field of study which he had called eugenics. This seemed to be taking the studies of his much more admirable cousin Mr. Charles Darwin a step – several steps - too far, by suggesting that we would at some future time be able to 'breed' better people just as over the centuries we had bred better animals. I had an uneasy feeling as a doctor that that was one can of worms Mankind would come to regret opening. 

Sherlock did not ask me to go into the Museum with him as he said that he was only collecting something that he had asked Mr. Galton for by telegram the day before. Whatever it was it must have been very small because he did not emerge encumbered by anything that I could see. He called out “King’s Cross Station” to the cab-driver and we rumbled off again.

“We are going to Totteridge?” I asked. 

“Not directly”, he said. “I do not wish our presence to be detected in any way so we shall take the train all the way to nearby Barnet and spend the night there. I am afraid that we will have an early start in the small hours of tomorrow morning and there will be an element of criminality involved. If you would rather avoid that part…”

I gave him such a look. He stopped but I detected the slightest of smiles on his lips. Clearly my determination to stick by his side had pleased him.

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Our inn at Barnet was mediocre, most probably because it was the only one in the area with the station being at least a mile short of the town that it purported to serve. I noticed with a little alarm how quickly my friend tired and how he fell asleep on the bed without pulling the covers over him. I removed only his shoes as I did not wish to risk waking him and covered him up before slipping in behind him. He looked so small and helpless in his sleep despite his being a couple of inches taller than me, and I silently thanked God for bringing this wonderful man into my life.

It was a strange facet of Sherlock’s character that while he was not a morning person (in much the same way that the Pope was not a Protestant person!), he could still when needed rouse himself at almost any hour. I was still fast asleep when I realized he was standing by the bed, dressed and ready to go.

“Come, my friend”, he smiled. “There is breaking and entering to be done. Or at least breaking.”

I managed to pull myself together, had a quick wash down, dressed and followed my friend silently. 

About the only good part about our choice of resting-place was that it had a back staircase and we were able to leave undetected. It was a two mile walk to our destination, one of the several country houses of the prime minister the Marquess of Salisbury. The utterly deserted road from Barnet ran through the village, crossing its main road to run right up to the main gates. Sherlock gestured to me to follow him along the road running east.

“I doubt that anyone will be up”, he said quietly, “but I would rather avoid even the slightest risk of detection. Especially when the security of empires is at stake.”

I nodded and followed him round for half a mile until we found a place where the wall had degraded to a degree. We made it into the grounds, and I could immediately see the huge bulk of the main house silhouetted against the moonlit sky. Sherlock then led me off down a small side-path; clearly he knew his way around the place. We finally came to what seemed to be our destination, the door of a small cottage which lay next to a bricked-up large archway.

“This used to be another gatehouse”, he explained in a whisper, “but the Cecils had it closed up. This is where Monsieur de Bréhaut resides.”

“You think that _he_ kidnapped his mistress's dog?” I whispered back, surprised.

Sherlock smiled and I saw his teeth glint in the moonlight. Then he produced a small tube and applied its contents to the hinges.

“Oil to prevent squeaking”, he whispered.

Once he had finished he replaced the tube and pulled out a lock-pick with which he easily forced the simple lock. He then opened the door about a foot before exchanging the lock-pick for what looked like a small silver whistle. At least, I thought it was a whistle, but when he blew it all that came out was the very faintest of noises. Hardly audible at all.

“Huh?” I whispered unintelligently.

He put his finger to his lips and smiled knowingly at me. I was puzzled – until I heard the patter of tiny paws approaching the gap in the window and a small scruffy rug of a dog squeezed through the gap. Sherlock immediately offered it a biscuit which the dog sniffed warily at before accepting. He then scooped the happy dog up into his hand leaving the door open and moving back down the path with me following.

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The following day I discovered just how cruel Sherlock could be when provoked. It proved to be an incredibly painful lesson - _for someone!_

We met in a room at his brother Guilford's latest hotel and I knew that Sherlock had placed the dog into the adjoining room where it had a plentiful supply of food. He had also had a vet in the day before to check it over, to make sure that it had survived its ordeal unharmed. We were to meet Monsieur Rosberg and presumably reunite him with his lost pet. 

I cannot say that I was favourably impressed by the French diplomat. My mind sprang back that old Napoleonic joke about the best place to hide anything from a Frenchman was under a bar of soap, because Monsieur Rosberg had gone to the other extreme; his cologne was so strong that I positively reeled back on meeting him. It was almost as bad as a certain lounge-lizard's!

“You have found dear Montmorency?” the diplomat demanded at once. His English was impeccable with barely a hint of his native accent.

“I have”, Sherlock smiled. “Safe and sound, and none the worse for his ordeal.”

The Frenchman sighed in relief.

“What about the villains who put him through this?” he asked. “You have caught them?”

Sherlock smiled knowingly.

“They will most definitely get what is coming to them”, he said.

Monsieur Rosberg smiled back. Sherlock's smile suddenly vanished.

“Starting with you!” he said firmly. The diplomat's smile faded.

“Pardon?”

“I know everything”, Sherlock said. “France is not my country sir, but I do not believe that the government in Paris will be overly happy to learn that you have betrayed them to their German enemies.”

“Sir, I protest!”

“You trained Montmorency in secret”, Sherlock said sternly, “so that when he heard the sound of a dog-whistle” (of course, I thought!) “which humans can hardly hear, he would head straight for it. You had Monsieur de Bréhaut observing from your cottage base, and when the dogs were playing in the garden he blew the whistle. Montmorency ran off to him and he has been keeping him ever since.”

“That is pure speculation!” the diplomat insisted hotly, although I noted he looked decidedly worried.

“The doctor and I freed Montmorency from his captivity yesterday morning”, Sherlock said, “by the simple expedient of using a second dog-whistle. The problem with drugging a small dog was that the dosage had to be low to be on the safe side, which meant that the one time he might be awake was the small hours. That was when we called and secured him. You sir are a traitor to your nation and a complete and utter scoundrel!”

“You cannot prove any of this!” the diplomat almost shouted.

“You will resign your post immediately and will ready yourself to leave the country”, Sherlock said firmly. “France as well as England. I am sure that Berlin will welcome one of its own.”

“What if I do not?” the man sneered.

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. Then he smiled his most dangerous smile. I did not tremble. Besides it was cold in that room!

“Are you testing me?” he said quietly. The diplomat visibly puffed himself up.

“I think, sir, that you are, as you English say, bluffing”, he said. “The French government would not want to risk such a public scandal.”

Sherlock rose and walked across to the connecting door. He paused.

“Believe you me Monsieur Rosberg, the French government will be the _least_ of your problems!”

He opened the door and I stared in astonishment. The doorway was filled with the largest member of the female species I had ever seen, a veritable Valkyrie. She was staring furiously at Monsieur Rosberg and the fact she was holding a clearly happy Montmorency did not in the least detract from a look indicating very clearly that violence was imminent.

“Gilles!” she thundered, and oh Lord she had a voice to match her size. “Is what this nice man says true?”

Monsieur Rosberg flushed an alarming shade of white and took a step back.

“Er”, he managed. I was impressed that he had got that much out!

The lady, presumably Mademoiselle Rosberg, had to actually edge slightly sideways to get her huge frame through the doorway then advanced on her husband, although incredibly she still found the time to send a simpering glance at my friend. Her target looked pleadingly at Sherlock who shrugged and gave him an 'I warned you' look, then turned to flee and promptly fell over the rug. My friend gestured to me and the two of us hurried from the room. The last two things we heard were a strangled “Beloved....” from Monsieur Rosberg followed by a loud yelp that, I suspected, had _not_ come from the dog.

“That was a _little_ cruel”, I said once we were outside (I suppose that my reproof might had had more weight had I not had to stop laughing first).

Sherlock grinned, his eyes crinkling at the edges as they always did when he truly smiled.

“I did offer him a chance to be reasonable”, he said. “I am sure that Monsieur de Bréhaut had sent him a warning telegram to alert him of the dog's disappearance so he must have feared the worst. But he chose not to co-operate. Now he must face the consequences of that decision.”

A thud came from the room behind us followed by a drawn out scream and some angry barking. I winced. Sherlock led me away down the corridor and we went down to the waiting-room next to the entrance hall.

“I think that if Monsieur Rosberg survives his wife's understandable annoyance he will prove amenable to my suggestion”, Sherlock smiled.

 _“If_ he survives”, I echoed. “So he is a German agent?”

Sherlock nodded. 

“He presumably went to the Germans after his homeland became part of their Empire and offered to use his position in the French government to damage the country's ties with Great Britain”, he said. “He will most probably be given his old house in Lorraine as the price of his betrayal.”

There was a small commotion around the reception desk at that moment and three of the hotel staff ran towards the staircase. I smiled.

“It seems that Mademoiselle Rosberg must have been _really_ annoyed”, I said. “Germany may not have much left by the time she has finished!” 

“Oh dear”, I said insincerely.

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Postscriptum: Monsieur Rosberg, once he was out of hospital, did indeed receive his old house in Lorraine and his masters in Germany paid for both his divorce and his hospital bills. He lived on there until the start of the Great War some twenty-six years after this story was set, when he was killed in an anti-German uprising in his village. After the war the French government, having regained the area, flattened his house completely and replaced it with a public park.

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_Notes:_   
_† Queen Victoria's son-in-law Emperor Frederick the Third, who ruled for ninety-nine days that year. Peaceable and wise, he was a double loss as he was replaced by his militaristic son William the Second ('Kaiser Bill') who ultimately dragged the Continent into the ill-named Great War._   
_‡ A rule devised to prevent Great Britain from being overpowered by an alliance of nations on a naval level. It required the British Navy to be ten per cent larger than the combined strength of the next two most powerful navies in the world that might be arrayed against her. It became completely impractical with modern and much more expensive ships._

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	12. Case 143: The Adventure Of The Tired Captain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1888\. In this curious case John receives advice from both Sherlock's 'cousin' Mr. Lucifer Garrick and a strange seer called Mr. Shane Holland. He also undertakes an exercise in utter Futility.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

It was one of those strange coincidences that not long after one case in which the advice of a seer had been instrumental in saving a man's life (Mrs. Cynric Musgrave's warning to Constable Alexander Macdonald that had saved the life of his uncle the inspector), a second 'supernatural' case should have arisen. Except that this time the threat was one which would only appear some years later – nearly fatally, as far as I was concerned.

Throughout that spring Sherlock had been called on for a whole run of minor cases, and I began to despair of ever getting him to slow down and relax. As I have mentioned before, he seemed to feel that our Continental excursion meant that he should try in some way to 'catch up' with all those cases he had missed, and Mrs. Hudson reported to me that his afternoon naps seemed to be on the increase. 

I myself was feeling a tad overworked, because although I had recently reduced my surgery time to just three days a week, this had been because of the increasingly positive attention that my novels of the great detective’s deeds were receiving, which had led to my publishers asking for me to publish another book and for the 'Strand' magazine to demand a near-continuous flow of works from my pen. I am sure that my bank-manager at least was more than happy with my improved financial situation, yet it had also brought me a problem. I needed to spend more time writing, but when I realized that this was making Sherlock miss his afternoon rests and thus become even more tired of an evening (he had been visibly embarrassed the one time that he had dozed off while I had been writing in the main room), I started spending time in the local library instead. The only exception was of course Sundays when I went to our local park; fortunately they had a series of covered shelters which given the unusually wet weather that spring was a godsend. And it was in the park that I found a solution to my friend’s overworking, from a most unlikely source. Or rather a solution found me.

It was the last day of March and I was working through a particularly difficult part of our most recent adventure when I became aware someone had joined me in the shelter. Of course this was public property but the shelters were small indeed and I had spread myself out as a further disinclination against being disturbed. I looked up to see a familiar figure even though we had only met on a very few occasions; Sherlock's cousin Mr. Lucifer Garrick or Luke as he called him, one of the few family members of whom my friend spoke with anything approaching fondness (or at least without a desire to commit grievous bodily harm!) Mr. Garrick's lover Mr. Benjamin Jackson-Giles, who I had treated several times but had thus far been unable to cure of his persistent leering towards certain consulting detectives who were mine now, was standing a little way off and very pointedly out of hearing distance. 

“I hope you can look more welcoming than that to your patients, Doctor”, Mr. Garrick said, pushing my papers aside to take a seat. “I would have liked to have been introduced to you formally that time in the Netherlands but alas! I had some urgent political business to attend to.”

I looked at him warily. From what little Sherlock had told me this gentleman worked for the government in a similar capacity to the annoying oleaginous unpleasant worm of a lounge-lizard Mr. Randall Holmes, presumably in a different department as I could not imagine anyone tolerating the latter for any length of time. At least not without yielding to the strong and quite justifiable urge to shoot him.

Although it did not arise in our conversation, I must be fair and mention at this point that despite the similarity in career to a certain eminently slappable lounge-lizard whom I would cheerfully have pushed off Beachy Head, Mr. Garrick made few if any demands on my friend. Indeed Sherlock later told me that the fellow had wanted to call on him for help on two occasions earlier that year but, knowing how overworked he was at the time, had desisted. At least some members of that family knew how to be decent human beings, although I could have done without his very careful sitting down and the visible smirk from a nearby behemoth which told me all too clearly just why it was a very careful sitting down!

“Your cousin is back at the house”, I said, “but it would be better if he was not disturbed just now. He is quite tired of late.”

_(Because my estimable readers mention it so often I will reiterate here that I knew quite well that Mr. Garrick was not a blood relation of Sherlock and not his cousin; he was instead a cousin of Sherlock's stepbrother Mr. Campbell Kerr. However, given how awful most of Sherlock's brothers were I could understand why he rated this fellow as family; unlike most of his actual blood relatives he was actually bearable!)._

“I would guess that you do not exactly hold the rest of your friend's family in high esteem, bearing in mind Randall is your prime experience”, the fellow said carefully. “I will be straight with you, doctor. Sherlock has always wanted to be independent of us, and despite herself his fearsome mother, who as I am sure you know took me in when my own parents passed not long before my majority, has tried to respect that wish as much as any parent can. She does of course keep an eye on all her brood and I have to tell you, doctor, she and I have both become quite concerned of late.”

“He is overworked”, I said. “But he rarely declines a case and he seems to feel that having been away so long during our Continental trip he owes it to the people of the city to be there for them now that he is back. I only hope that he is taking advantage of my absence to catch up on some sleep, rather than working on yet another problem. That is why I either go to the library or come here, so as not to disturb him.”

“He always puts other people first”, Mr. Garrick agreed. “I think that I may have a possible solution.”

“Go on”, I said warily.

“Do you know of a place called Futility Island?” he asked.

“No, I do not.”

“It is a tiny place in the North Sea, a mile or so off the Essex coast near a town called West Mersea. Probably one of the closest spots to London that is still so cut off; Mersea itself can only be reached by a tidal road that runs from the nearest railway station at Colchester some ten miles away. There is a retired sea-captain who lives on the island by the name of Mr. Bulstrode Amadeus St. George Aplestone Falconbridge – I can only assume that his parents did not like him overly much!”

I could not help but smile.

“Mr. Falconbridge inherited his island house – it is a disused light-house - from his father some years back. He is unmarried and the last of his line, as well as being a very private gentleman. About a decade ago he took up gem-cutting as a hobby, and found that he was possessed of quite the talent for it. He does not need the money but his skills are ever in demand and he comes to London for a week's work each month before heading back to his island retreat.”

Mr. Garrick paused for breath and smiled at the distant Mr. Jackson-Giles, who was visibly unhappy at being away from him. Although the behemoth did not have to lick his lips quite so lasciviously; my interlocutor's breathing notably increased as he did so.

“I think that it would be better if he tells you most of his story”, he said, looking rather worried for reasons I could well guess. “It is all quite strange and I am sure that it would entail you both going to his island, which in turn would mean that you would be there for some time; the only way on and off the island is a local fisherman whom Mr. Falconbridge calls by raising a flag. Short of someone sending signals from the mainland there is no way to get messages to the place.” He smiled almost wolfishly before adding, “and do not let Sherlock forget to take his knitting!”

I nodded, feeling slightly hopeful. I knew that Sherlock was not really the workaholic that he sometimes came across as in my stories; he knew how to relax and the knitting was a recent thing which seemed to give him some sort of relaxation (I was not surprised that this fellow knew of it, nor that he had known today was my one day for the park). Cut off from those forever demanding his services, my friend could surely solve whatever this case was easily enough and get some much-needed rest.

“You should send this unhappily-named person to Baker Street”, I said. Mr. Garrick smiled at me.

“I shall arrange an appointment”, he said. Then he seemed to hesitate. “Doctor?”

“Yes?”

“Remember, the Holmeses look after their own. You and Sherlock – I of all people understand. If _you_ ever need our help, you have only to ask.”

He quickly rose to his feet and was striding back to his lover, who pulled him into a possessive hug before letting him go and blushing. I wondered exactly what he had meant by that last remark. Then I remembered that he had said that he – and his fearsome mother – were both keeping a watch on us. Despite the relative warmth of the day, I shivered. Ye Gods, if she wrote a story about the two of us and wanted me to read it, I would surely have to emigrate!

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Mr. Bulstrode Amadeus St. George Aplestone Falconbridge was brought to our rooms and announced by Mrs. Hudson (with a commendably straight face considering that, incredibly, his full name was on his calling-card) just under a week later. He was a small and nervous-looking fellow of about sixty years of age, grey-haired and almost cadaverous in his appearance. When he finally took a fireside chair he just sat and stared at us for a few moments. Though I suppose that that was better than the alternative; I privately thought that some of our clients needed their lips sewing together! Starting with a certain lounge-lizard.....

“How may we be of service, sir?” Sherlock prompted, shaking his head at me for some reason. 

The man jumped at his voice and I wondered if we should send down again to Mrs. Hudson for something a little stronger than coffee. Finally however he made a visible effort to pull himself together.

“My name, sirs, is Mr. Bulstrode Falconbridge.” Like Sherlock he had a deep voice which ill-suited his small frame. “I live a quiet and withdrawn life on a small island off the coast of Essex, by name of Futility Island. Every month I come to London for a week’s work as a gem-cutter. I used to teach mathematics, and a friend recommended the trade to me some ten years back as he thought that my knowledge of angles might render me good at it. He was right; I proved particularly adept at dealing with the larger and more difficult gemstones so my services are often in demand.”

“All that travelling must be somewhat expensive”, I observed. He smiled.

“It fetches me off the island”, he said, “which I suppose is good for me, and I get paid extremely well for my little work. You should understand that a tiny mistake in my line of work could cost many thousands of pounds to the gem owner. So to the crux of my tale. Last week I took the boat to Mersea as usual – I have to plan my journey carefully because I first have to arrange with a local fisherman to pick me up and then time my arrival to the town as it is on a tidal island - and from there I took a cab to catch my train at Colchester. I travelled into London as was my usual custom and everything seemed normal. Until that is I reached my place of work.”

He paused for breath.

“I do my work at Carborundum†, a gem-cutting firm in the East End, and pay them a fee for the use of their rooms”, he went on. “I will not bore you with the science of my post but my trade mostly entails using only a few small instruments which I always carry with me. A diamond-cutter only ever uses his own tools; to do otherwise would be like unimaginable!”

“On this particular day there was a gentleman visiting the company, a fellow called Mr. Shane Holland over from the United States. His company had purchased a large consignment of diamonds from Kenya and they were being shipped through London, his job being to evaluate them and telegraph a report to his employers. It was only later, from an overheard conversation at the warehouse, that I learned that he was in fact taking the largest single stone over himself; he had checked the consignment when the ship had docked two days earlier, and that one gemstone was worth considerably more than all the others put together.”

“I do not think much of a workplace there they allow such information to be bruted about”, I observed.

“It struck me as somewhat untoward, too”, our guest admitted, “though perhaps later in my tale you will see why his employers placed such trust in him. He was a tall fellow and quite young – although at my age just about everyone seems young! – and not the sort whom one would normally notice so it struck me as odd that even after our brief introduction I continued to be aware of him. He was doing some work on polishing the lesser stones while he waited for his ship, which was due to leave Liverpool that Friday.”

“The rest of that day passed quietly enough as did the next three days. I called in on an acquaintance in Barking on Wednesday morning but that was the only departure from my normal routine. I would not have done so but the second stone that I had been scheduled to work on was some hours late in arriving so I had the time.”

“It is my usual custom to return to my island home after a week away but this time I had arranged to visit with a cousin of mine in Chelmsford and to spend the weekend with them, so I arranged my departure for Friday morning. I went into the company to say my farewells and sign off the inevitable paperwork, and I was surprised to find Mr. Holland waiting at the door for me.” 

He hesitated. 

“I do not use the words lightly when I say that he looked exceedingly nervous. He pulled me to one side and spoke so quietly that I was quite unnerved.

_'“You return to Essex today, Mr. Falconbridge?” he asked._

_I nodded, wondering what this was all about._

_“I appreciate that you will consider this a little presumptuous of me, but may I inquire as to which train you are travelling on?”_

_I frankly did not see what business it was of his, but the fellow was of a similar disposition to myself and perhaps I related to him a little. Besides as I have said there was something strangely noticeable about him, though I could not have said quite what if pressed on the matter._

_”The ten o’clock from Liverpool Street, sir”, I answered._

_He seemed to hesitate. I did not know why but I felt increasingly nervous._

_“The eleven o’clock is a much nicer train”, he said quickly. “Good day, sir.”_

_He hurried away before I could reply. I stared after him, nonplussed.'_

I suddenly realized what our guest was leading up to.

“The Globe Road Station disaster!” I exclaimed. Mr. Falconbridge nodded.

“Yes”, he said heavily. “The fellow’s comments left me confused and I spent some time standing outside the building mulling them over before I called a cab. I arrived at Liverpool Street Station with only six minutes in hand, so I decided that rather than fret through the queue at the ticket-offices I could just as easily take the later train and use the time to enjoy a late breakfast. You can imagine my reaction when, after only a quarter of an hour, I heard an announcement that all trains were being diverted because of a crash to the very train that I myself should have been on. Four people were killed and many more injured. I could have been one of them.”

“So this Mr. Holland may have saved your life”, Sherlock observed. 

“He did”, our guest said. “And that was not the only odd thing that befell me that weekend, either.”

“What else?” Sherlock asked. 

“It was an incident which did not strike me as important at the time”, Mr. Falconbridge said. “My time in Chelmsford passed uneventfully and on Sunday afternoon I journeyed on to Colchester. I had half an hour there before I could take a cab to Mersea, the tidal road still being underwater at that hour, so I decided to sit in the waiting-room and eat the sandwich that I had purchased back in Chelmsford. I went to use the facilities first; I had my precious tools in my pocket but left the bag with the sandwich in it on my table – and when I came out it had been stolen!”

 _'The Case Of The Missing Sandwich'!_ I smiled to myself. _Drum-roll if you please!_

“Do you ever take stones to the island for cutting?” Sherlock asked, looking askance at me for some reason.

“Not in person”, our visitor said. “The physical risk especially to someone of my lack of physical strength is far too great. But sometimes a gem-owner will send a stone to me by courier and arrangements will be made for me to meet with them at Mersea. They will then wait there until it is ready; the only way on and off the island is through the local fisherman who ferries me to and fro when I ask him to.”

“Someone following you home might still believe that you are the sort who leaves precious stones in paper bags when he uses the facilities”, Sherlock said. “One never knows with some people. This is most fascinating. Please continue.”

“The following morning I went for a walk around my island”, our guest said, “as I had done the evening before. I found shell casings lying by the old fence not far from my back door. The island is barely a mile from Mersea at that point so it is possible that someone fired from there, or maybe took a boat out. Fortunately it was dark when I was out walking so they must have missed.”

“You did not hear the shots when they were fired?” I asked, surprised.

“There is a shooting-range at the far end of Mersea beyond the town and close to where it nears my island”, he said. “I sometimes hear them if the wind is in the right direction, so gunfire in the distance is not something that I usually notice. And although a mile does not sound much, the channel currents are far too powerful for anyone to try to swim across. But Mr. Holmes, I am still afraid!”

Sherlock pressed his long fingers together in thought and remained silent for a little while before speaking.

“We must proceed logically”, he said eventually. “I must ask you some direct questions Mr. Falconbridge and you must be honest in your answers.”

“Of course”, our visitor said, looking even more frightened.

“First”, Sherlock said, “let us consider your own estate. _Cui bono?_ Who would benefit from your death?”

“No-one”, the man said firmly. “I am unmarried and the last of my line. The island will go to the local council because my family only holds it while the male line survives. My estate although it is a substantial amount is to be split between a number of charities and three distant cousins all of whom I know only by name.”

“They are aware of this?” I asked. Our guest shook his head.

“There was a familial breach some generations back”, he said, “and their father cut off all contact with my side of the family. He is a most unpleasant person but I know that his sons and daughter are cut from a rather better cloth. My lawyer had established that all three are adequately provided for on a financial level; I have also bequeathed my late mother's jewellery to be split among them which is worth in total just under seven hundred pounds. None of them know this however.”

“Might the jewellery not be stolen?” I asked. He shook his head.

“It is lodged in the vaults of a London bank for safe-keeping”, he said. “There were also annuities that my father left for two of his most faithful servants. One of them has since passed but a separate fund will maintain the annuity for the other until they pass on. His wife is quite poor, and should she outlive him the annuity will continue for her.”

I was impressed; he seemed to have thought of everything. Sherlock was silent for a moment.

“You said that when you were leaving our place of work, this Mr. Holland was ‘waiting at the door’” he said. “Was he actually _at_ the door when you went to leave, or did he cross the room to intercept you?”

I thought that a rather odd question. Our guest frowned as he tried to remember.

“No, he was definitely waiting there”, he said at last. “I remember because I saw what must have been his leather jacket on the coat-stand; it had an American flag on the sleeve which I felt a little pretentious. Also the coat was quite unsuitable for this country’s climate. I presumed that he too was leaving as his boat was as I said sailing that evening but he did not depart before or with me. Although I do not think that he would not had to have left until midday.”

“If my friend is free then we shall definitely accompany you back to Essex and see this charming island of yours”, Sherlock said, much to my relief. “That is if your light-house can host two more bachelors?” 

“I would be delighted”, I said. “I shall send the surgery a telegram before we go.”

“I would also like to call in at this Carborundum of yours”, Sherlock said. “This is a most curious case that you have brought us, Mr. Falconbridge. However….”

He paused.

“However, I feel it only fair to warn you that your life is in some danger. Do you possess a gun?”

The man went so pale that I was afraid he might pass out.

“A g-g-gun, sir?” he quavered.

“The doctor and I will both bring ours”, Sherlock said reassuringly, pulling open a notebook. “I must also send a telegram before we leave.”

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Carborundum lay on the far side of the city on the edge of the East End and it took some little time to get there. Sherlock had on his knowing smile and I knew that he was up to something.

“What is it?” I demanded. “You have that look again.”

“We have been working together for too long if you can read me like that, doctor”, he smiled. “I sent a message to LeStrade to make sure that we were not followed by the driver of that hansom parked opposite us in Baker Street while we were talking.”

“I am being followed?” Predictably that set Mr. Falconbridge off into a panic again.

“Not any more”, Sherlock smiled. “LeStrade will meet us at Liverpool Street if he has any news but I very much doubt that your pursuer is that careless. I made sure that he pulled the fellow in for questioning _before_ we left so he will not know if you have indeed secured our services.”

We arrived safely at the cutting firm which was an ugly monstrosity of a black building, and Sherlock went in alone. He emerged just ten minutes later and instructed our driver to head to the station.

“Did you find out what you wanted?” I asked. He nodded.

“The firm took on two new employees in the last few months”, he said. “A Mr. Alistair Campbell and a Mr. Duncan MacLeod”

“Both Scots”, I noted.

“The owner Mr. Ferguson is Scottish”, Mr. Falconbridge put in, “as are several of the workers there. I am half-Scots through my mother who knew his late wife, which was how I came to work there.”

“I hope that LeStrade is on form”, Sherlock said as we sped along. “I rather fear that I am about to make severe demands on the poor fellow.”

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Inspector LeStrade met us at Liverpool Street Station, and as Sherlock had feared he had no news of Mr. Falconbridge’s shadow.

“The cabbie was asked to watch for the gentleman here leaving your house and follow him wherever he went”, he said. “He was told that he would be contacted some time later today 'for the gen'. The man who gave him a crown for that great service was, in his exact words, ‘tall, dark and mysterious’.”

“Our London cab-drivers read far too many novels in their spare time”, Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. “Authors these days!”

It took rather longer than it should have done for me to harrumph in protest at that totally uncalled-for remark, and The Great Cake-Detector Mark One over there could shut up as well! Sherlock chuckled and handed over a sheet from his notebook to the policeman.

“I need anything and everything that you can dig up on those two”, he said handing our friend a card. “I am sorry to do this LeStrade, but I need it in less than two hours. Whatever you have by that time can be sent to the telegraph office at a place called West Mersea in Essex which we shall then be passing through. If you find out any more later you can post it to us at that address.”

LeStrade nodded and took the files and hurried away, something his burly figure was not really built for. Sherlock steered us to the ticket-office where he purchased three first-class tickets to Colchester. We were soon safely ensconced on the train and I unfolded my newspaper as we pulled out of the station. Then I gasped.

“What is it?” Sherlock asked.

“Listen to this!” I said. ‘”There has been a most audacious theft aboard the liner 'Ruritania' which was en route from Liverpool to New York. The victim was one Mr. Shane Holland of the United States who, it has since emerged, was transporting what is believed to be the third-largest yellow sapphire in the world. The theft was discovered when the ship docked at Dublin and it is feared that the thief has made his escape into Ireland.’”

To the surprise of both of us, Sherlock chuckled.

“I would like to have met this Mr. Holland”, he said. “Mr. Falconbridge, is this the same coat that you were wearing when you met him?”

“Indeed it is”, the man said. “Is that important?”

“I was only going to say we should place them in the rack”, Sherlock said. “It is a warm day for the time of year and we have at least an hour’s railway journey ahead of us.”

He took both our coats added his own and hoisted them all into the overhead rack, and we sat back while I continued to peruse the newspaper article.

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We were squashed together in a cab headed down to West Mersea, the sole town on the island of that name when Sherlock posed a question to our client.

“You say that the ferry service such as it is is run by a local fisherman”, he said. “How trustworthy is he?”

“Exceedingly so”, Mr. Falconbridge said firmly. “Tom's family have worked for mine for generations. I was going to leave him something in my will but his boat needed major repairs, so I paid for that instead. The 'Anna' is virtually a new vessel now, which I know pleased him greatly as he is very attached to it.”

“I was thinking about your pursuer”, Sherlock explained. “He will either come here or send someone here. I think that we should be prepared.”

Mr. Falconbridge leaned forward. 

“How so?” he asked.

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I had feared that I might find our destination rather claustrophobic, but I absolutely loved Futility Island. It was barely any larger than a football pitch, little more than a hundred yards from end to end and barely fifty across across, the tall light-house rising up from its exact centre albeit less than half the size of its modern replacement which we could see in the distance up near St. Osyth. 

Mr. Falconbridge excused himself immediately on our arrival saying he had to finish working on a small gemstone while he still had the natural light (his work-room was in an extension building adjoined to the light-house with windows on three sides). Sherlock bundled me up to our rooms which because of the nature of the building were on different sides of the building.

My friend asked one question at dinner that evening which stuck in my memory for later.

“Apart from your obliging local fisherman, how else might someone gain access to the island?”

Mr. Falconbridge thought for a moment. 

“It is surprisingly difficult”, he said. “As I said, the currents are strong enough to prevent anyone from swimming across, and taking a boat is not easy either. You may have noticed that Tom went out some way west of the island before turning back; that was because the island is on part of a wide triangular sandbank. Indeed that is why the light-house was built for the bigger ships; despite the charts they kept grounding themselves on that sandbank when they hugged the coast.”

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There was something remarkably freeing about being cut off from civilization, especially in these days of mass communication and the telegraph. I suppose that messages could be passed to us if needed – the fisherman brought the letter from LeStrade over after a few days - but I was frankly overjoyed to see Sherlock looking so happy soon after our arrival, sat in the old light-room while the seagulls screamed at each other outside. My friend had indeed brought his knitting, knowing that we might be here some time, and it was almost surreal to see him clicking away in the light-room. I knew not what sort of danger threatened our host but I did not think that anything could reach us here.

The following morning, I found out just how wrong that belief was.

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There had been a storm the previous night and when I emerged the next morning it was to an amazing sight. About a dozen people were standing at the little harbour and Tom's fishing boat was tied up there as he talked with Mr. Falconbridge. Two smaller boats were sat just off the island, clearly awaiting their turn to dock at the tiny jetty.

All became clear when I went round the back of the light-house to find a large fishing-boat beached on the sandbank off the eastern (seaward) side of the island. Sherlock came up behind me as I observed.

“They put out from Clacton to observe the meteor shower last night”, he said. “Apparently the captain fell asleep at the wheel and they went onto the sandbank. But the seas were calm and they were able to make the island using a row-boat.”

I looked at him suspiciously. He gave me his best innocent look which I did not believe for one moment.

Six of the people on the quayside squeezed onto Tom's boat (it really did look like a new vessel, I noted) which sailed away to be replaced by the first of the two waiting craft. Sherlock nudged me and steered me over to where the remaining six people were waiting. To my surprise there were already three men seated in the next boat, and despite the lack of uniform one of them was unmistakeably our friend LeStrade who was first out as the boat docked.

That was not as surprising as what happened next, however. One of the men in the line on the tiny quayside, a pasty-faced blond fellow of about forty years of age, looked around nervously then reached into his pocket and pulled something out.

“I know you, LeStrade!” he yelled at the approaching figure. “Go back or you'll never see this gewgaw again!”

LeStrade grinned and continued to approach him - I belatedly recognized one of the fellows with him as the affable Constable Ted Goodenough from the same station; I had treated him the one time – and our friend's quarry clearly realized there was no escape. He stepped back then hurled whatever he was holding as far out to sea as he could, and as it span through the air I recognized it as a gemstone.

“Mr. Falconbridge's work!” I gasped as it splashed into the North Sea many yards offshore.

LeStrade and his men had the fellow in handcuffs by this time, despite his worst efforts. Sherlock led me up to them and coughed politely.

“Hullo, LeStrade. Mr. Alistair Campbell, I presume?”

“I 'aint saying nothin' without a lawyer!” the cuffed man sneered. “I knows my rights!”

“Very advisable in your case”, LeStrade grinned. “Theft is a serious crime.”

“I don't see no evidence”, the man snapped back. “Unless you plan to dredge the whole damn ocean?”

“Why would we do that to retrieve a fake gemstone?” Sherlock smiled.

Mr. Campbell stared at him.

“You're lying!” he snapped, but I could hear the doubt in his voice.

Sherlock shook his head and stepped back before putting his hand into his pocket. When it emerged he was holding a large uncut yellow sapphire, which even it its raw state shone in the morning sun. It was a good thing that he had withdrawn as Mr. Campbell lunged after him.

“Now now, Alistair”, LeStrade grinned as his constables wrestled the villain back into a sulky submission. “You need to control that temper of yours. Breaking and entering, theft, violence against a member of the public, resisting arrest – some judge is gonna have a field-day with you!”

He and his fellow officers dragged the protesting fellow away to where the third boat was just docking. I turned to Sherlock.

“Explain!” I demanded.

He quirked an eyebrow at me. I sighed in a put-upon way.

“Please?” I ground out.

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“This case was unusual as it hinged around a supposition based on someone that I have never actually met”, Sherlock said later. The three of us were sat in the old light-room, which was the warmest room in the building during the day. “Mr. Shane Holland clearly possesses some psychic abilities and I started with the assumption that he used those to further his and his employer's ends.”

“By keeping me alive you mean”, Mr. Falconbridge said.

“And more”, Sherlock said. “He knew that an attempt would be made to steal the sapphire on board ship, so before leaving London he arranged to slip it into your possession by placing it in your long-coat before he met you that day in Carborundum. I have such a coat myself and I know how deep the pockets go.”

“So you knew that someone might attempt to steal it?” I asked. He nodded.

“Mr. Campbell does not see Mr. Holland 'palm' the stone onto you”, he said, “but he is playing for high stakes here so he has covered the possibility that you might be involved. One of his agents followed you and later stole the bag that you left on the table, presumably thinking that people hide gemstones in paper bags then obligingly leave them in railway waiting-rooms! At least he got a sandwich out of it!”

I smiled at that.

“Mr. Campbell meanwhile went on the 'Ruritania' in pursuit of Mr. Holland, probably with a ticket to Ireland, and stole what he soon realized was a fake gem. He returned to London and probably next searched his place of work but still found nothing. Someone talked at the right price and he realized that you must have been given the gemstone but likely were not aware of it. He then had to find a way to reach the island. He was fortunate that the annual meteor shower was being seen by a boat leaving Clacton which he purchased a ticket on. I dare say that he bribed the captain to fake falling asleep at the wheel – something that no seaman would ever do - and ensuring that the boat hit the sandbank. In the confusion that followed the survivors being rowed onto the island – the strong currents meant that getting to the mainland was impossible - it was simple for him to break into the work-room. Mr. Falconbridge and I had made sure a fake stone was placed there, apparently ready to be cut; he dared not use any light as our host sleeps in the next room. You have seen what followed.”

“So Mr. Holland should be making contact again soon?” I ventured.

“He will return from America once the police there have finished questioning him, most probably to Liverpool”, Sherlock said. “John, would you be able to travel across England to meet him and so spare him coming all the way across the country to us? That way he can return at once.”

That would be a formidable journey I knew, but it would give Sherlock much more time on the island and that was what was important.

“I would be delighted”, I said.

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Thus it was that two weeks I left our little haven and travelled right across England to hand the stone over to Mr. Holland, feeling incredibly nervous that my doctor's bag held something worth more than I could earn in an entire lifetime. I was sure that every fellow who came too near to me knew of the value I was carrying, and I got a decidedly strange look from the Great Western Railway ticket-collector when I jumped up to meet him at the door of my compartment. Mr. Holland was taking a train from Liverpool to connect with another liner from Plymouth and would break his journey to meet with me at the Temple Meads station in Bristol. 

I was not quite sure what to make of Mr. Holland. There was almost a Sherlock-esque quality about him, which I suppose must have been the height as he had blond, well-groomed hair and had light brown rather than blue eyes. He thanked me for bringing him the stone and as his train came in before mine I saw him to his carriage. He leaned out of the window and just as the guard's whistle blew, he suddenly spoke.

“Doctor”, he said seriously, “in the years to come there is one thing that you _must_ remember.”

“What?” I asked, starting to walk as the train was beginning to leave the station. 

He hesitated, the distance between us widening rapidly. I barely heard his final words:

“Seeing is usually believing - _but not always!”_

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Postscriptum: Ten years later and after many vicissitudes in my own life, I received a book in the post with no sender's name, although it had been posted in the United States. The book was called 'Futility' and it was the story of how a huge four-funnelled liner described as 'unsinkable', the 'Titan', set sail on its maiden voyage across the Atlantic Ocean with an insufficient number of lifeboats, struck an iceberg and sank to the bottom of the ocean with great loss of life. I am sure that I need not remind my gentle readers what happened fourteen years after that.

And bearing in mind how places outside London hardly ever came back into our lives once we had visited them in the course of a case, we were destined to visit Futility Island one more time – in some very dark circumstances. Yet our second time there would change our relationship in ways that, as yet, I could not even have begun to imagine.

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_Notes:_   
_† Latin for 'grinding down'. Later much famous for the dog Latin phrase which the Romans themselves never actually used, 'illegitimi non carborundum' – don't let the bastards get you down'!_

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	13. Interlude: Away From It All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1888\. A quiet time – for now.....

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

As things turned out Sherlock and I had stayed on Futility Island for a little over two weeks after the conclusion to our ‘supernatural’ case, the only gap being my day trip across the country to Bristol to meet Mr. Shane Holland. I had prepared a whole raft of arguments as to why we should prolong our stay on the island (i.e. why Sherlock should take a much-needed break) but typically he forestalled me by suggesting staying on anyway. The sight of him happily knitting away in the light-room gladdened my heart.

Foolishly – and as a doctor I always try to take a rational approach to things – I wished in some way that we might continue this idyllic lifestyle. I knew that Sherlock was in touch with his cousin Mr. Lucifer Garrick and so we might be summonsed back to deal with a crisis at any moment, but for now it was wonderful to just be away from it all for a while. I would later learn that we had only been spared the too-frequent demands of the pestilential Mr. Randall Holmes; his mother had 'invited' him round to her home and told him just what she would do if he called on us for anything less than a Continental war. Presumably she threatened to read him some of her stories and damnation if I am not getting another disapproving look from 'someone'! Harrumph!

All good things must come to an end however, and at the end of April we finally had to leave our little haven, We said goodbye to Mr. Falconbridge and Tom obligingly took us back to the mainland at Clacton from where we could catch a direct train to London. I was sure that Sherlock tipped him far too much as per usual, but fortunately he was able to use his best 'bacon' look to persuade the fisherman to accept it. 

_He could stop with the tutting and all!_

The Great Eastern Railway duly sped up back to Liverpool Street, from where it was but a short cab ride to Baker Street. I had taken the opportunity offered by the Bristol trip to telegraph Mrs. Hudson that she could undertake her annual spring-clean of our rooms in Baker Street and we arrived back to find the place dusted to within half an inch of its life. Fortunately she had not meddled with Sherlock’s writing-table where the notes that I kept organized for him remained untouched, although she had somehow managed to have them dusted!   
We were home.

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	14. Case 144: The Adventure Of The Crooked Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1888\. Sherlock returns to work after his much-needed rest, and a child's bedtime story is instrumental in causing a respectable (if simpering!) lady to be rather surprised in the middle of a busy Middlesex restaurant. It also helps to ensure that equilibrium is restored in the Met.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

I might have known that things would be back to the way they were, although I quietly resented that we had but one evening of peace and quiet before our next, incredibly strange case broke upon us. Sergeant Gregson called round the morning after our return to report that Mr. Alistair Campbell was indeed facing a long jail sentence and that his only real regret was that we no longer transported felons like him to Australia (I disagreed with him on that as I quite liked Australians). His rival Inspector LeStrade was now a little further across London, although I was sure that he would somehow contrive to visit us now and then, and that those days would always 'just happen' to coincide with Mrs. Hudson's baking days!

I almost smiled when Sherlock shook his head disapprovingly at me.

“Although I doubt that with the sentence he has coming up, that villain will live long enough to breathe free air again”, Gregson said, sinking his tall form into a fireside chair. “No, it is another case that brings me here this morning.”

“One you have just started?” Sherlock asked. The policeman shook his head.

“You could say that this one has been going for about four years”, he said mysteriously.

Since you ask, it was ginger-cake day. Please remain calm and try not to all be surprised at one and the same time and damnation if 'someone' is not giving me a disapproving look again! Harrumph!

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“I doubt that even you will be able to make head nor tail of this, sir”, the policeman said, scratching his head as Sherlock plated up a slice of cake for him. “It started some four years ago with a Mr. Charles Branson. He was a terrifying fellow; when he moved from Dundee to London, the Forfarshire boys sent us his folder and I remember groaning when I read it. The kilted bastards even included a 'good luck you'll need it' card! It would have been a damn sight quicker for them to list the crimes that he had _not_ been involved in!”

“I do not remember you ever mentioning him”, Sherlock said with a frown.

“With good reason”, the policeman went on, his eyes lighting up as Sherlock handed him the cake. “This was one time when the Fates were kind to us poor coppers, for a while at least. The day he came south there was that accident at Shap, blocking the West Coast line up in the Lakes. He took the Midland route via Settle instead and it was on that train that he met a young lady, one Miss Gladys Welsh who had been travelling back to London after visiting her aunt in Appleby. It seems that there is such a thing as love at first sight; they were married as soon as the three weeks were up.”

“Did he not have to register in a London parish first?” I asked, surprised.

'Someone' was too busy eating their beloved cake to reply immediately. I drew a slice of it in the margin of my notes and of course got another sharp look from the resident mind-reader. That was just _unfair!_

“He came here because he had inherited a small house in Queen's Park from a distant cousin”, Gregson explained, licking away a rogue crumb (he was almost as messy as someone else that I could mention but would not because I would only get another look). “So he was already a Londoner, legally, like her. The banns were published at his local church and they were married there too. Sad to say it all ended badly; she became pregnant but the baby was born a month early and she died in childbirth. The child, named for her mother, almost followed her out of this world but the hospital staff pulled her through; it is impressive what they can do in this day and age.”

“For a couple of years after that Branson kept his nose clean and took care of his daughter but then a cousin of his moved from Cheshire to just outside London, and she took the child in for him from time to time so he was able to turn back to his old life. I do not think that she approved but then blood is thicker than water, or so they say.”

“Nothing that you consulted me on?” Sherlock asked.

“It was all fairly minor until last year”, Gregson said. “Calm before the storm as it turned out. Last December he was involved in the Barton Street Bank Robbery; you remember we nearly lost one of our own in the shooting that followed. The gang got away with thousands but one of them turned informant to save his own neck and we had enough to nail Branson.”

“What went wrong?” I asked.

“He had gone to live in small house in Buckinghamshire, for his girl's health or so he claimed. We arrested him all right but while he was in custody one of the other gang members got to him, or rather they paid someone to get to him. He was stabbed in the neck and died almost immediately; there was talk in the service that the officers on duty had 'looked the other way' but nothing could be proved. Of the three fellows with him one got the drop for trying to kill Constable King – the informant had shot him first - and the other two got twenty-five and thirty years respectively.”

Sherlock looked at him quizzically.

“This all took place some months back”, he observed. “Yet you have only just been given this case. Why?”

Gregson blushed. I knew full well why.

“Paris?” I said innocently.

Our visitor was staring at the floor as if he wished it to open and swallow him up. My readers will remember the sad death of the sergeant's wife back in March, and that it had been his rival LeStrade who had secured the promotion that had suddenly come on offer (it says something for the latter's quality that the Metropolitan Police Service, who could be terribly fussy when it came to such things, had been prepared to overlook his being two weeks short of the required service time). However we had known at the time that a second vacancy at that level would be arising thanks to a current inspector misusing police funds for various 'irregular activities', including a trip to France where he had sampled the female night life of that city a little too much. He had contracted something rather nasty and someone at his local doctor's had told his wife!

Sherlock stared hard at our guest.

“Chief-inspector Brown?” he asked.

Gregson nodded glumly. Chief-inspector Gascoigne Brown was one of the more useless of London's senior police officers (a strongly contested title, sad to say), and worse, he had a number of family as inept as him but still seeking promotion because they felt that they were entitled to it. One such was Sergeant Gulliver Brown, who thankfully 'worked' the far side of the Thames and who we had been fortunate never to encounter in our adventures (to be fair, I would not have objected to his having featured as a corpse).

“You have been given this seemingly insoluble case to damage your prospects”, Sherlock said, looking askance at me for some reason.

“Yes sir”, the sergeant sighed.

“When does the Board make the decision?” Sherlock asked.

“Friday week”, Gregson said.

“Then we have ten days to find the money.”

For the first time that morning Gregson actually looked hopeful. It did not last.

“The thing is, we have next to no clues”, he said, his face falling again. “We searched Branson’s house in Amersham and his old London house for that matter from top to bottom. Absolutely nothing! I even had to go through the poor girl's things, which I hated!”

Sherlock thought for a while.

“Is there a way to see the house without upsetting the child?” he asked. Gregson nodded.

“She is in the county hospital with a mild cough”, he said. “The cousin who came down from Cheshire is taking her in now, name of Mrs. Arlesburgh; she is a worrier and then some. Married to a bank manager who lives up in Harrow and she is sorting the cottage sale through an estate agent in her area; he is assessing the place this week. She expects the girl to be released either Saturday or Sunday and she informed us that she will be taking her straight to her place in Harrow rather than back to the house with all its memories. Any day next week will be fine.”

“We had better choose Monday, then”, Sherlock said. “That still leaves us some time before your big day.”

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I was surprised when, two days later, Sherlock asked if I would accompany him to interview the aforementioned Mrs. Arlesburgh, the cousin to whom the welfare of young Miss Gladys Branson was now entrusted. I was initially amazed that the lady in question had agreed to such a thing though on reflection I should not have been. Sherlock could somehow charm women even through the medium of the telegraph!

The following day we took a cab to Euston and after a short journey arrived at Harrow & Wealdstone station, where a second cab took us into town and deposited us outside The Blue Boy. I did not need to ask which of the patrons was our client; a lady dressed in mourning clothes sat stiffly upright at one of the tables, a cup of tea before her. Sherlock walked up to her and bowed.

“Mrs. Arlesburgh?” he asked politely. “I am Mr. Sherlock Holmes and this is my friend and colleague Doctor John Watson. Thank you for agreeing to spare us some of your valuable time this fine day.”

Heavens to Betsy, the woman actually _simpered_ at him! Over fifty, married and in mourning clothes, the full bloody trifecta, yet she was looking at him like he was the Second Coming. Honestly, I could not take him anywhere!

 _(Contrary to what 'someone' later claimed I did_ not _snort indignantly at that point in the proceedings. It was just a cough that came out wrong)._

We ordered two more coffees and some cakes - Sherlock was kind enough to request a slice of chocolate roll for me, which at least partly made up for having to tolerate the doe-eyed looks being sent his way from across the table - and he got straight to the point.

“First I would like to reassure you that my friend Sergeant Gregson and I are making every effort to avoid causing your new charge any distress in this matter”, he said sombrely. _“Her_ welfare comes first and foremost, that I promise.”

The lady seemed to relax a little at that and nodded.

“You are clearly an upstanding citizen”, Sherlock said, “so I feel no scruples about discussing certain elements of the case concerning your cousin’s recent activities with you. As I am sure that you know, he was involved in the theft of a large sum of money. We are talking some tens of thousands of pounds. Two men are in gaol for the crime and a third has been rightly hung for the attempted murder of a policeman. Unfortunately the money remains at large. The men inside deny any knowledge of its whereabouts and it will be many years before we can know if they are speaking the truth. If the money is not located then there is every prospect that one or both those men will be able to find it when they do finally come out, or worse, convey the information to friends of theirs who are still at liberty. As I am sure you will understand such people do not usually have those things called scruples, and there is the distinct and unpleasant possibility that they may consider the girl to be possessed of the information that they require. Or that you yourself may and might be pressured into revealing what you know if the girl was targeted.”

“I suppose that the bank is employing you to track down the money?” the lady asked warily.

“No”, he said, to her evident surprise. “Sergeant Gregson is a good friend of mine and I am helping him solely because of that. I myself shall receive no remuneration for my humble efforts in this case in any way, shape or form. Indeed I think it only fair to tell you, madam, that should I locate that money I shall return it to the bank. However I shall demand that a substantial amount is set aside for the use of Miss Branson.”

“Sir!” she protested.

“Not an inheritance, as such”, he went on. “I have to say that it is exceptionally kind-hearted of you to take on such a responsibility for a distant relation, especially as you can hardly have approved of her late father's lifestyle. However, even with your husband’s income raising a child is an expensive business. That money, if I can find it, would be for you to use as you see fit until she is twenty-one and for her thereafter.”

Mrs. Arlesburgh nodded and seemed to think for a while before speaking.

“There is very little that I can tell you, Mr. Holmes”, she said. “I usually left Charles and Gladys alone when I was around so that he could have his time with her. Despite his... lifestyle he was a kind fellow at heart and never happier than when he was with her. I have read the good doctor's books (I blushed at this point, if manfully) “and I know how the smallest things can reveal the truth to you. There is one small matter that I did not like to bother Sergeant Gregson with, but perhaps you can make something of it?”

“Please go on”, Sherlock said.

“Charles always liked to sing nursery rhymes to Gladys when he put her to bed”, she said. “He really had the most terrible singing voice but she loved it nonetheless. I only thought of this after his death, but the more I thought about it the stranger it seemed. You see, before the robbery he would recite different rhymes with her each time; she was too young to have favourites. But in that short time _after_ the robbery it was always the same rhyme, night after night, right up to the day that he was arrested.”

“Which rhyme?” I asked sitting forward.

“The one about the crooked man with the crooked house”, she said. “I asked him once why it had suddenly become such a favourite of hers but he refused to tell me.”

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Saturday found Sherlock poring over a fold-out map that he had obtained from somewhere. It turned out to be of the area around Amersham, the town on the edge of which the late Mr. Charles Branson had purchased his cottage. I was surprised to see a pair of compasses next to the map and a large black circle drawn on it. My friend looked up at me and smiled one of those gummy smiles of his.

“I hope that you have a good pair of walking-boots, John”, he said.

“Pardon?”

He gestured to the circle on the map. 

“At least six miles of good Buckinghamshire air”, he said, “and probably more since we shall be prevented from walking through people’s back gardens for some inexplicable reason. We have at least ten possible places to examine.”

“Examine for what?” I asked.

“Stiles.”

I looked at him, now completely confused. He chuckled.

“’He found a crooked sixpence, upon a crooked stile’?” he quoted. 

“Of course!” I exclaimed. “The rhyme!”

“Making the fair assumption that the stile would be on a field border then there are at least ten possibilities”, he said. “We shall need to examine each closely as we have no idea exactly what form this ‘sixpence’ will take.”

“Could not Gregson help with some of his men?” I asked. Sherlock shook his head.

“If he is to benefit from this then we can hardly be in the same area looking for clues”, he said. “I doubt that even his superiors, and particularly the associates of the unpleasant Chief-Inspector Brown, would be able to refrain from putting two and two together and they would immediately send some of their own men to 'help', in other words to try to steal the credit. No, we must remain hidden until we can present him with a finished case. Then provided I can find the money you will be able to add this story to your growing canon.”

The prospect pleased me. 'Silver Blaze' had been exceptionally well received, and 'The Adventure of The Five Orange Pips' had also had very positive reviews. I was just finishing 'The Adventure of The Noble Bachelor', the first of our three Continental stories to be published six months after which my publishers would be allowed to include it in my latest book. 

“Of course you will find it!” I scoffed. 

He smiled at my faith in him. But I felt that it was totally justified.

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On Monday we left Baker Street early and took an underground train to the end of the line at Rickmansworth (the Metropolitan Railway's extension to our destination was then still being built) and thence a cab to the centre of Amersham.

“I did not wish to incite local gossip by asking for us to be taken straight to the house”, Sherlock explained as we walked down the High Street. “Besides I did warn you that we might have a lot of walking to do.”

It was a crisp spring day, fine and with a gentle cooling breeze and I was walking in the country with my best friend. I smiled at him.

“I am prepared!” I said.

Gregson had given us the key to the cottage which, fortuitously, was an isolated building, so we were not spotted as we made our way in. However half an hour spent searching the place proved fruitless, at least until Sherlock found something in a writing-desk. It was a children's story-book. He opened it and grinned knowingly at me before reading aloud from it:  
 _“'There was a crooked man, and he walked a crooked mile._  
 _He found a crooked sixpence upon a crooked stile._  
 _He bought a crooked cat, which caught a crooked mouse,_  
 _And they all lived together in a little crooked house.'”_

“Rather obliging of him to leave such a clue”, I said dubiously. My friend smiled at my cynicism.

“Remember that the book only makes sense to us because of what Mrs. Arlesburgh told us”, he reminded me. “Anyone else searching for the money would assume that it had just been left there by accident.”

“We just have to find a country stile”, I said. “He even bookmarked the place for you.”

“For some reason the bookmark was in the story of 'The Owl And The Pussycat'”, he said, frowning. “That concerns me, but for now we must press on.”

He nodded and we left, locking the place behind us.

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Five hours later we were sitting in a tavern in Amersham tired, footsore and not a single step closer to finding even the elusive sixpence. None of the many stiles had been precisely one mile from the cottage and thorough examinations of all of them had yielded precisely nothing. A light shower during the day had dampened my enthusiasm and I felt exhausted. Sherlock looked ruefully across the table at me.

“I am sorry for dragging you all the way out here”, he sighed. “I get so carried away with my cases that I tend to overlook important things like friends.”

I smiled back at him.

“At least we tried”, I said. “Perhaps when we are safely back at 221B we can look at other possibilities?”

He looked as depressed as I felt and that really worried me. I could just see some of the good work of our island holiday coming undone.

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I needed my sleep that night so I was somewhat surprised to be shaken awake in the small hours of the following morning by a clearly excited detective. It must have been very early, because the only thing that I could focus on was that those terrible teal-blue pyjamas with... oh Lord, fluffy bunny rabbits on them. He had joined me without putting on the light the night before which had probably been a good thing as otherwise I would doubtless have gotten an elbow somewhere painful for all the sniggering.

“John!” he almost yelled. “I have been so stupid but finally, _finally_ I see it!”

“See what?” I asked groggily, sitting up as he bounced around the room as if he had had far too much coffee (even for him). 

“The bookmark!” he exclaimed happily. “When Mr. Charles Branson said about a crooked mile he was being quite literal. It was not a statute mile but a _nautical_ mile†, which is about fifteen per cent further.”

I shook my head in confusion, still trying to wake up.

“So we were looking in the wrong place then?” I asked.

He belatedly seemed to realize that shouting excitedly at your friend in the small hours of the morning was not..... well, it just was not. 

“I am sorry”, he said looking suddenly downcast. “As I said, I get carried away and forget myself, and I should not have woken you, and I am sorry, and.....”

I reached out and took his hand, much to his surprise. 

“I share your excitement”, I smiled, “but I think that I may share it rather better several hours from now.”

He looked abashed.

“But I am glad that you told me”, I said, swallowing a yawn. “Come back to bed.”

I winced at my own words. They sounded like we were.... well, like we were.

“Of course”, he smiled sliding back to his rightful place next to me. I folded myself back around him and sighed happily..

“Fluffy bunnies”, I muttered under my breath. I was sure that I heard an indignant huff and I got what was most definitely a slight elbow for my remark, but it was worth it. He was happy and that was all that mattered.

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I was a little sleepy the next morning but my friend's excitement at having corrected his original error more than made up for matters. This time we went by train to Wycombe – Sherlock did not wish to risk getting the same cab-driver as before and our efforts somehow reaching Gregson's rivals – and he directed the driver there to take us to Little Missenden, a village just beyond the town of Amersham. From there we had only a short walk into the country to reach our first stile.

“I double-checked and there are only three possible locations this time, all within one per cent of a nautical mile from the cottage”, he explained. “One here and one a little way north, just outside a village called Hyde Heath. If they are both fruitless, then we shall have to work our way round to the third which annoyingly is the other side of Amersham. There are also a further ten possible sites which are within five per cent of the required distance.”

“Then we had better get started”, I smiled, hoping that the late Mr. Branson had been exact in his mathematical measurements.

Today Lady Luck was with us. The stile near Little Missenden yielded nothing but in Hyde Heath I found what I thought at first was a shiny nail hammered into the wood of the stile. Puzzled – a nail head should surely have rusted by now – I used my knife to extract it and nearly dropped it in my excitement.

It was a sixpence! Not only that, someone had clearly gone to a lot of trouble to hammer the exposed side so as to hide the coin markings.

“You are a genius, Watson!” Sherlock praised (I may or may not have preened slightly). “I do not suppose you can find either a cat or a mouse while you are at it?”

Unfortunately the stile and the ground around it yielded nothing else. Sherlock decided to return to the town and make inquiries as to whether Mr. Charles Branson had ever purchased any pets. He also dispatched a telegram to Mrs. Arlesburgh asking the same question; clearly she must have been expecting it for the answer came back before we left the town. Sadly it was a negative as were Sherlock's inquiries at the sole pet shop in Amersham. But we returned to Baker Street in higher spirits, feeling that we were closer to an answer even if we only had two full days left.

Gregson had sent us over the complete file on the late Mr. Charles Branson, and Sherlock and I spent much of Tuesday evening reading the massive volume. It was little wonder that the Forfarshire police force had danced with joy at the villain's departure from Scotland. They were probably still celebrating!

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Ironically this time it was I who woke in the middle of the night with sudden inspiration, my sleep-sodden brain deciding that two _ante meridian_ was the perfect time to connect the dots over another element in the case. I was sorely tempted to wake my friend to tell him but I knew that he needed his rest. It could wait. Besides, if I turned the light on then I would see those terrible pyjamas again and I knew that I would not to be able to keep from laughing!

There was a warning growl from a few inches away. I smiled and went back to sleep.

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“You have an idea.”

Sherlock was staring at me across the living-room of Mr. Branson's cottage. I had been searching the place for something that I felt should have been there but palpably was not. I frowned.

“Have we searched every room?” I asked.

“We have”, he said. “But clearly you are looking for something specific. You have been on edge ever since you woke up this morning.”

“I was wondering if he had any whips”, I said.

“Only the one in his bedroom”, he answered. When I stared at him clearly nonplussed, he explained. “He had a small collection of relics from his days at sea, kept in one of the bedside drawers.”

I stared at him. 

“Did it include a sailor's whip?” I demanded, my eyes alight. 

“Yes”, he said. “So what?”

I strode across the room and grabbed him by the shoulders in my excitement. He looked decidedly alarmed.

“Sherlock”, I said slowly, “the old name for the whip used on sailors was 'the _cat_ o' nine tails'!”

We stared at each other for a moment then he slipped my grasp – he could move like lightning when the need arose – and shot out of the room, his feet pounding heavily on the stairs as he ascended. I pursued him but by the time I got there he had opened the drawer and upended all of the contents onto the bed. 

There were three items apart from the horrible 'cat': an ornately carved tusk presumably from some luckless sea-creature, a small notebook and a long jewellery box. Sherlock picked the tusk up while I examined the notebook. 

“Absolutely nothing!” I said in frustration. “Someone has torn out half the pages!”

“This is strange”, he said looking closely at the tusk. “It has the name 'Gladys' carved into it.”

“So?” I said. “That was his wife's name, and his daughter's.”

“Yes”, he said slowly, “but some other name has been erased or changed by it. The spacing is not quite right and an extra letter has been decorated over.” He squinted, trying to make out the faint marks. “After the 'G' and the 'L.... A-L-I-C.... the missing letter must have been an 'E'. I wonder who 'Alice' was?”

“Possibly a girlfriend”, I said. “Possibly even another wife; we all know what sailors are! He had a job on a boat while in Scotland according to the file, remember?”

I picked up the cat and stared hopefully at it.

“Tell us where the mouse is”, I muttered.

“If only that worked!” Sherlock smiled from behind me. 

The cat did actually have nine 'tails' and I ran my hand along one of them, shuddering when I thought how they had once been used on poor sailors. It was then that I noticed it. Someone had used a metal type to imprint a letter 'O' near the end. I fumbled for a moment then examined the other ends. 

_Jackpot!_

“Sherlock!” I hissed. “Look!”

I showed him the cat and we quickly jotted down the letters. In addition to the 'O', we had two 'D's, another 'O' and one each of 'G', 'S', 'N', 'C' and 'L'. 

“Only two vowels and both 'O's?”, I wondered. “GOLD CONDS? Or was one of the 'D's an 'I' and the phrase 'gold coins'?”

Sherlock smiled that knowing smile of his and almost ran over to the bookshelf. He searched for only a few moments before holding up a book in triumph and bringing it over to me.

“'Alice's Adventures in Wonderland'?” I said in surprise.

“By that interesting author, Mr. C. L. Dodgson”, he grinned. 

“The letters!” I almost shouted.

Sherlock was flipping through the book until he came to the picture showing the Mouse swimming away. Folded up at that page was a receipt for a London jewellery store which he read aloud:

“'Recreation of lost family heirloom from fake copy. A pure silver necklace; diamonds, emeralds, rubies, sapphires and topazes, plus distressing services. Sum total, twelve thousand pounds‡'.”

I whistled at the huge sum.

“But why did they not come forward when the case became public?” I asked. Sherlock shook his head.

“That industry functions on trust and discretion”, he said. “The shop-owner would lose valuable - if questionable – business if it became known that he had assisted the police with their inquiries. Some criminal elements might even have taken more direct action to express their displeasure.” 

He opened the jewellery box and extracted a beautiful silver necklace with over twenty different-coloured stones in it. He examined it carefully.

“The real jewels?” I asked breathlessly. To my surprise he shook his head.

“Fakes”, he said. “But they do tell me where the real one is.”

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To my immense chagrin Sherlock would not tell me what he knew except to say that he had scheduled a further meeting with Mrs. Arlesburgh the following day and had dispatched a reassuring telegram to Gregson. Fortunately we were going to the opera that night and that distracted me from worrying about the case. 

The following day we met Mrs. Arlesburgh again in The Blue Boy. Sherlock came straight to the point.

“I now know the whereabouts of the money hidden by your cousin”, he said. “Loath though I am to say it madam, you were not quite completely honest with us.”

She looked shocked at that.

“I assure you sir, I told you everything”, she said starchily.

“Except about Mr. Charles Branson's involvement in something of yours”, Sherlock said. “The necklace that you are wearing today.”

She smiled reminiscently.

“It was a gewgaw that my husband purchased for me years ago, well before we could afford anything real. Twenty-four stones, because I met him when I was that age. I lost the original during the move but it was insured, so I had a replacement made. I ordered it from a jeweller friend of Charles's in London just after John and I moved down here.”

“Did your cousin ever have hold of it?” my friend asked.

She looked rather embarrassed. Sherlock smiled reassuringly at her.

“He took it in to have it repaired by this friend of his recently, did he not?” he said quietly.

“Yes”, she said looking uncertainly at him. “The day after the robbery, although of course I did not realize that at the time. How did you know?”

“Because he also collected a _second_ necklace that he had ordered”, Sherlock said. “Identical in every way to your own, madam - except that that one, for which he paid some twelve thousand pounds sterling, had _real_ gems in it. That necklace, madam, is what you have been wearing around your neck all this time. Twelve thousand pounds worth of gemstones!”

She looked like she was going to faint, but rallied and quickly unclasped her necklace.

“Take it!” she urged, clearly desperate to be rid of such an expensive gewgaw. I could not blame her; how women wore so much money around their necks had always been beyond me. 

Sherlock took the thing and pulled the jewellery case from the cottage out of his pocket, swapping the necklaces over and handing the fake one back to Mrs. Arlesburgh. She took it gratefully.

“You did not find anything else of interest?” she asked clipping on her cheap copy that to me looked identical to the real thing.

“Only this bent silver sixpence”, Sherlock said, showing it to her.

To the surprise of us both she smiled at that, then reached into her purse and produced a sealed letter.

“Charles told me one thing that I was to keep from everyone”, she said. “Until they gave a bent and battered sixpence to me, when I could hand them this.”

Sherlock took the letter, opened and read it. Then he blushed fiercely. Curiously, I took it from him and read it myself:

_'Mr. Holmes,_   
_The fact you're reading this says two things I guess. First I've paid for my crimes, and second you've found the loot. Well done you! I knew you were the only fellow in London I could trust to do right by young Gladys. Fanny is a good stick and her husband is all rightish I suppose but a girl with that much money needs a powerful gentleman keeping an eye on her in this day and age, someone with connections, leastways till she can look after herself. I've read all the stories your doctor friend writes and I know I can trust you. The cops might follow the law but you follow justice._   
_All the best from Hell._   
_Charles Branson (dead)'_

I stared at Sherlock.

“He knew”, I said slowly. 

My friend nodded and handed a small card to Mrs. Arlesburgh.

“Any time either you or young Gladys need me”, he said. “Any time, just call.”

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_Notes:_   
_† A nautical mile was then defined as one minute of distance (i.e. one sixtieth of a degree) along any line of longitude, so it varied depending where in the world one was. Today is is defined as 1,852 metres (about 1.15 miles), which is why a speed in knots is about 15% less than speed in mph._   
_‡ At least £1.3 million ($1.6 million) at 2020 prices._

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	15. Case 145: A Case Of Identity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1888\. Member after member of a noble family is being dispatched to the next world in short order – can Sherlock stop a serial killer before it is too late?

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

It was still the month of May when we encountered our next case and it arose indirectly out of the events described in the last one. Sherlock of course kept his word and declined the offer from the bank of a reward for the money's recovery, asking instead for the money to be placed in a trust fund for young Miss Gladys Arlesburgh (the girl having been given her new guardian's name to avoid the publicity surrounding her late father). My friend received a most effusive letter of thanks from Mrs. Arlesburgh, which I recall made him blush deeply. I was impressed that some females could now simper through the mail!

The case was as we had hoped instrumental in securing Gregson's promotion to the rank of inspector, joyously for him in the area covering Baker Street, so he could continue to 'just happen to' call in every baking day! That promotion in turn meant that there was a vacancy for sergeant at our friend's station and it was filled by a policeman who had asked to transfer in from Upminster in Essex, as he had just married a lady from the Regent's Park area and they wished to live near her parents who were not well at the time. It was this young fellow who went by the name of Sergeant Baldur D'Arcy, who brought with him a most curious case.

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Sergeant Baldur (Inspector Gregson had explained to us that his noble family had disinherited him for the heinous act of becoming a policeman, hence he preferred to be known solely by his Christian name) called on us one day very soon after taking up his new position. He was a tall fellow in his mid-twenties ad I immediately thought of the young Norse god who had met a tragic end and whose name he bore. This Baldur had an open, handsome face with bright, almost yellow hair, and Miss Thackeray covertly mock-swooned after she departed our rooms having deposited him there. It was I felt annoying that some gentlemen had marginally more than their fair share of looks than others.

_It was almost as annoying as a smirking consulting detective that I could name! Harrumph!_

“I must tell you, gentlemen”, our visitor said in a mellifluous tone, “that the case I lay before you today is not one that I was personally involved in. My superiors kindly gave me a week off to arrange my moving house and getting married and this case – or the Upminster element of it – broke during that time. But the doctor here publishes cases that are often fascinating in one aspect or another, and something about this affair is decidedly strange.”

Sherlock pressed his long fingers together and looked across at our guest.

“I am most intrigued”, he said. “Pray continue.”

“The case revolves around the late Mr. Septimus Baverstock and I must start my story some ten years ago”, our guest continued. “Mr. Baverstock had been married and had had six children, four of whom all attained adulthood. These were Abraham, Elijah, Isaiah and Obadiah. Their father had been possessed of a huge estate based around the Wiltshire village that bears his name which, had it been sold and apportioned equally, would have adequately provided for all four of his sons. Unfortunately – for just about everyone as matters developed – the terms of inheritance were fixed in that the estate had to pass whole to one person and that the current holder of the title got to choose that person, the only limitation being that they must be male and of the blood lineage.”

_(I should say at this point that these 'nominative inheritances' were very rare among the English nobility yet the trouble that they so often caused is reflected in the fact they featured in several of our cases, most notably our last ever one from Baker Street, The Creeping Man)._

“That could only lead to trouble”, Sherlock observed.

“Indeed”, the sergeant said. “As each boy came of age their father placed at their disposal an identical and fair-sized sum of money. It soon became clear that he was testing his sons so as to decide as to which one should eventually inherit the estate.”

“That was cruel!” I said reprovingly. The sergeant nodded.

“It proved too much for Elijah the second son, who used his money for criminal ends in an attempt to 'get rich quick' as they say. He failed, then tried to steal from the estate to replace his losses, and when his father found out he was banished. As is usual in these cases he was given a small sum of money and left the country for Australia.”

I thought that such a sum was most likely a pay-off to go away and not come back. It was most fortunate that I did not give voice to that opinion as much the same could I only later learned also have been said of the sergeant's own family, whose actions would later threaten to cause him considerable distress. Fortunately he would have a useful consulting detective to hand, even of the bastard had nabbed all my bacon that morning!

“And now he has returned?” Sherlock asked, smiling for some reason. The sergeant looked surprised but nodded.

“I am coming to that sir, but yes”, he said. “The events of the past few weeks have been both sudden and worrying. Two weeks ago Mr. Septimus Baverstock died in his home where he lived alone except for the servants. He was in his sixties but he was in reasonable health and the doctor was surprised at his having had a heart-attack that had presumably caused his fall down the stairs.”

“You do not believe that his death was an accident?” Sherlock asked.

“His local doctor was suspicious and wrote a report that was all ifs, buts and maybes”, he said. “Three more deaths since suggest that he may have been right to be suspicious. First Mr. Abraham Baverstock was shot while waiting for a train at his home railway station of Dunbridge, a small place between Salisbury and Southampton. On a country station in England would you believe? Just two days after that Mr. Isaiah Baverstock was found dead in his bedroom in London. Someone had left the gas on and he had suffocated.”

“I suppose that Mr. Obadiah Baverstock has also met his maker in suspicious circumstances”, I said wryly. To my surprise the sergeant shook his head.

“Very nearly”, he said. “He is the one who lived on my old patch and he had a very lucky escape. He had moved into lodgings with a Mrs. Keswick when a man came looking for him. The fellow's tone was foreign and the maid thought he said 'Mr. Barstock'. Unhappily there was a fellow living in one of the other rooms called Mr. Norman Bostock and the maid duly directed him to Room Two rather than Room Five. The very next day Mr. Bostock was found shot dead in an alley, just off his way to his work as a bank clerk. Both men were only there for a month and were due out by the end of the week.”

“What has happened to Mr. Obadiah Baverstock?” Sherlock asked.

“He has gone to his late father's house in Wiltshire, where he has a round-the-clock police guard.”

“That will not stop a determined killer”, Sherlock observed. “You said that Mr. Elijah Baverstock was back in the country?”

The sergeant nodded.

“How did you know that sir, may I ask?”

“The killer would hardly start their campaign of removing family members when one of their targets was several thousand miles away”, Sherlock said. “He would also make an excellent supposed killer – assuming of course that he is not the real one.”

The sergeant nodded.

“We checked the shipping offices and one of them confirmed that he had left Melbourne a couple of months ago”, the sergeant said. “He was recorded as a passenger on a ship that docked at Plymouth just two days before his father's death. When the death occurred he had been staying in Salisbury, which is only a few miles east of the village.”

 _Last man standing_ , I thought. Sherlock looked at me sharply for some reason.

“Naturally the Wiltshire boys 'invited' him in for questioning”, the sergeant continued. “He said that his father had sent him a telegram from England asking him to come home – he had it on him - though when he went to see him the old man denied having done any such thing. To be fair his father's memory was going so the old man's servants said, and when questioned Mr. Obadiah Baverstock admitted – reluctantly, I was told – that his father had been seeking a reconciliation, although he knew nothing about any telegram. There was no record of anything having been sent from the local post-office but then if he had been keeping it secret from his family he would likely have had a servant send it from somewhere else.”

“I suppose that Mr. Elijah disappeared soon afterwards?” I hazarded. The sergeant nodded.

“His landlady in Salisbury said he claimed that someone had broken into his room. but I think that was just a cover story”, he said. “Of course he has not been seen since, there or in Baverstock village.”

“What are Mr. Obadiah Baverstock's plans?” Sherlock asked.

“To sell up and get out as quickly as possible”, the sergeant said. “Very wise in my opinion. Unfortunately a clause in the will means that he does not actually inherit until exactly a month after his father's death so he still has at least two weeks to go.”

“And to stay alive”, I put in. 

Sherlock seemed lost in thought. We both waited for him to speak.

“I think it would be a good idea to interview the landlady in Upminster – Mrs. Keswick, you called her. Then we might go down to Wiltshire. There is no immediate hurry if as you have said Mr. Obadiah Baverstock cannot sell up for two weeks.”

“Unless his brother gets to him first”, I pointed out.

“I fully expect there to be an attempt on Mr. Baverstock's life in the next two weeks”, Sherlock said airily. 

“What?” the policeman exclaimed.

“Calm down, sergeant”, Sherlock said soothingly. “I doubt very much that it will succeed. No, our first priority is to see poor Mrs. Keswick.”

“Why do you call her 'poor'?” I asked curiously. He looked pointedly at me.

“Would _you_ wish to stay in a boarding-house where people get murdered?” he asked.

He made a good point. Although I did not believe that innocent expression of his for a moment. I knew a not-smirk when I saw one!

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Sergeant Baldur arranged for us to visit Mrs. Keswick two days after his call. Unfortunately when we woke that morning, a certain blue-eyed consulting detective was not in good shape. He had been quiet the night before and this morning he looked terrible.

“You have a mild case of gastroenteritis”, I said after a quick examination. “Lots of fluids, no alcohol and lots of rest.”

He tried to croak something at me but his voice had all but gone. Instead he pointed feebly to the calendar.

“I know that we were due to meet Mrs. Keswick today but you cannot go in this state”, I said firmly. 

Of course he tried the kicked puppy look on me. Most times that would work, but not when his health was at stake.

“No!” I said firmly. “Mrs. Hudson can bring you up your liquids and you can write down the questions you were going to ask Mrs. Keswick. I promise that I will make sure I put them _exactly_ as you phrase them.”

He smiled weakly at me and gestured for a notebook and pencil. I placed both by his side and went downstairs to tell our landlady that she had an invalid on her hands, at least until I returned. I was sure that that much bacon was not good for someone in Sherlock's condition but when I handed it to him he looked at me like I was the Second Coming, and I had not the heart to refuse him. Instead I just passed him the ketchup.

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Mrs. Emily Keswick's house lay in Athelstan Mews, a little way south of Upminster Station. It was a well-to-do area and I noted the large 'Rooms To Let' sign in the window of her house. A maid admitted me and I was quickly shown to the lady's room. 

Mrs. Keswick was clearly a lady of quality as she refrained from any disappointment that it was only I who was visiting her, not the great Mr. Sherlock Holmes himself (at least it saved her from all that simpering!). After she had expressed wishes for his swift recovery I turned to the questions that my friend had written for me.

“These are the things that Mr. Holmes wished to ask you”, I said. “First, he asked for as complete a description as possible of the two gentlemen involved in the case, as well as the potential murderer.”

She shuddered at that word.

“Mr. Bostock had moved in only the week before”, she said (unlike so many she had the good sense to speak slowly so that I could note down her words). “He was young, well-presented and eager to please. Quite friendly, he would talk about anything and everything. He mentioned that he was courting a young lady in the area but he did not say her name; naturally he never brought her _here.”_

She let me catch up with my notes before continuing. 

“Mr. Baverstock was quite the opposite”, she said, with a faint shudder. “I would not go as far to call him rude _per se_ but he seemed to have very little time for anyone. He was about forty years of age and seemed to suffer from arthritis.”

I looked up from my notes, distracted.

“ _'Seemed'_ to suffer?” I asked. She nodded. 

“He always shuffled everywhere”, she said, “but one day I happened to hear him coming down when he did not know that I was cleaning out the cupboard under the stairs and he was walking quite normally. I personally think that he played it up so that he could be more miserable!”

I smiled at that as I wrote it down.

“The man who called was young and spoke very little”, she said, “although Betty was sure that he had a foreign accent. She does have such an imagination so I would not be too sure about that. However, I remember that it was a hot day yet he was covered up with layer after layer, so perhaps he was foreign and came from a cold country. Yet he also had a strong tan.”

“How did you know that if he was covered up?” I asked. 

“That was the other thing that struck me as odd”, she said. “Betty was cleaning the front room and spoke to him out of the big bay window. I saw him from my room which as you can see also faces out onto the street. As he was leaving he took his gloves off, and his hands were quite sunburnt. He was thin and I suppose upon reflection that I may be presuming his youth, although he moved very quickly. Betty thought that he was young, though.”

“So Mr. Bostock was not in his room at the time?” I asked. 

“I had thought him to be, but he must have gone out without me seeing him.”

She sounded annoyed that one of her tenants had 'slipped his leash'. I suppressed a smile as I caught up with my notes.

“Did Mr. Bostock and Mr. Baverstock ever meet?” I said, asking Sherlock's next question.

“That surprised me a little”, she said, “in that two men of such different character were friends. As you may know they moved in at the same time and both just for a month, which I thought strange. I may have imagined it but Mr. Bostock seemed worried for his friend for some reason. I have no idea why, of course.”

I wrote that down, then hesitated.

“Mrs. Keswick”, I said, “I would like to thank you for your answers to my friend's questions thus far. He had one more question but he has advised me to forewarn you that it is of a slightly personal nature. If you find it intrusive or just do not wish to answer it, please say so.”

“Of course”, she said looking nervously at me.

“How has business been since Mr. Baverstock moved out?” I asked.

For an awful moment I thought she was about to break down in tears but she managed to hold things together, although it took a visible effort. 

“Awful!” she admitted. “Three of my four other tenants have moved out and I am sure that Miss Foreman is only staying because she cannot afford anything else, or at least anything that is so near to her work at the railway station.”

“Thank you”, I said. “I promise that we will keep you informed as to developments in the case.”

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I reported my findings to Sherlock when I returned. He had only one request arising from my visit and it was much what I had expected; I was to send a telegram to his cousin Mr. Garrick to ask him to covertly assist Mrs. Keswick until the fuss had died down. Mercifully the London journalist then as now had an attention span marginally shorter than that of the average gnat, so she at least might soon be over her own problems.

Sherlock's recovery was slower than I had hoped and when I returned four days later after having had to travel some way into Surrey to see one rich and utterly obnoxious patient it was to find that my friend had fallen asleep in the fireside chair. I smiled, pulled up the blanket which had slipped down off of him and stoked up the fire. Then I turned round – and saw something on the rug which made my heart sink.

I went downstairs and asked Mrs. Hudson if any visitors had come since I had left that morning. On being answered in the negative my blood duly boiled but I thanked her and went quietly back upstairs to where my friend was still sleeping. He continued to doze for another hour and I was working on my writings when he finally awoke. I went across and pressed the bell.

“Mrs. Hudson said that she would send up a stew when you awoke”, I said. “It will be here in a few minutes.”

He looked around the room for a moment seemingly confused, before smiling and approaching the table. I waited until he had sat down before I pounced. 

“Did you have a good day?” I asked nonchalantly.

“I will feel better when I can get on with this case again”, he muttered. 

“Where did you go?”

He froze and looked at me guiltily.

“Pardon?”

“Where did you go? I know that you went out today despite my telling you not to. There is a small mud-patch on the carpet that was not there this morning, and Mrs. Hudson tells me that you had no visitors.”

He stared fixedly at the tablecloth, clearly ashamed at having been caught out.

“I went to see someone who Luke found for me”, he muttered still not looking at me. “I needed him to do something before going down to Wiltshire.”

It was rare indeed that I felt superior to the great detective and I am ashamed to say that I did milk the moment. I stared at him for a while before quitting the table and taking my own seat by the fire which I poked viciously.

“I wish that you had trusted me”, I said quietly. “I do not mind you getting out for a short walk perhaps, but the fact that you did so without clearing it with me.....”

I was unaware that he had left the table and moved to beside me and I jumped at his appearance right next to me. 

“I would trust you with my life, John”, he said quietly. “But I had to do this, and today. I am sorry.”

He placed his hand on my shoulder, and although I was still feeling moody enough to continue my huff he was still a sick man. Above all he was my friend.

“I understand”, I said stiffly. “But I am going with you, and if you show any sign of being unwell it is straight back to London for you!”

“I promise to follow my doctor's orders”, he smiled. “From now on.”

There was a knock at the door and Mrs. Hudson herself entered with Sherlock's evening meal (not one of the maids I noticed, which meant that she was keeping an eye on him). She was obviously aware that there was an unusual tension in the room but God bless the woman, she refrained from commenting on it. She loaded up her tray with my dirty dishes and left us alone. I was sure she did not look at me at any time, yet for some reason I still thought of her recent words about my friend. 

Yes, and about that pistol!

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It was two more days before I judged Sherlock well enough to travel. I had expected him to push to go sooner but my catching him out seemed to have shocked him into submission and he did not utter a word of complaint.

Getting to the village of Baverstock from London reminded me of the wonders of the modern age. I still remembered our painful journey by stagecoach to Lambourn and Mr. 'Tiny' Little's case; such a bone-shaking experience should in my opinion be restricted to fairgrounds and museums. I wondered idly what would one day replace the trustworthy steam train as we sped effortlessly along the line from Waterloo to the cathedral city of Salisbury. Hopefully not one of those strange 'horseless carriages' or 'automobiles' which I had read one Mr. Karl Benz was now manufacturing in Germany. Allowing any Tom, Dick or Harry out onto the roads seemed to me a recipe for disaster!

Sherlock looked a lot better today although I silently determined that he was still resting once we got back to London. We changed at Salisbury for a local train and got out two stops later at Dinton, the nearest station to Baverstock. From there it was a gentle cab ride through the Wiltshire countryside, until we arrived at the gates of Baverstock Hall. A policeman was standing guard there and I was a little concerned that he did not even look up from his newspaper until we were almost upon him. If this was the level of 'protection' that Mr. Obadiah Baverstock had been given then he might well not live to come into his inheritance!

There was a second and rather more alert policeman at the house door, which was a little better, and we were shown into the main room where a third officer was trying to calm a clearly over-excited middle-aged gentleman. The constable looked up as we entered and I could swear that there was gratitude in that look.

“Constable George Steadham, sirs”, he said. “You must be the gentlemen from London. Thank the Lord that you are here!”

“Has something happened?” I asked anxiously.

“My brother is in the village!” the little man almost shrieked. “He is less than a mile from here and these policemen do nothing!”

“English law does tend to frown on its officers arresting people merely because they are _thinking_ about possibly committing a crime”, Sherlock said airily. “Some document called Magna Carta that rather a large number people are quite fond of, if I recall. Do I have the pleasure of addressing Mr. Obadiah Baverstock?”

“Not for much longer if I get murdered”, the fellow grumbled. “You must be the famous Mr. Sherlock Holmes that I have heard so much about.”

“A man has been reported asking questions about the new lord in the great house”, Constable Steadham explained. “Fred down at the Dog & Duck came and told me; he thought it was important when the guy came two days in a row. We posted a man in the place there today but he didn't show.”

 _Waiting in a pub all day_ , I thought wryly. _Nice work if you can get it._

“So your brother is in the area?” Sherlock said, shooting me a look for some reason. “Excellent!”

Mr. Baverstock stared back at him in amazement.

“How precisely is that 'excellent', sir?” he asked testily. 

“Tell me”, Sherlock said, “is it true that in the event of your death the estate passes to your brother?”

The fellow hesitated before answering.

“Yes”, he said. 

“But?” Sherlock prompted.

“The rules of the estate allowed my father to bequeath the whole thing, except for minor bequests to servants, to just one of his sons”, Mr. Baverstock explained. “Father and the family lawyer had to make the choice between them, but if there was only one son left then he got everything.”

“And the estate has to be kept in the Baverstock family?” Sherlock asked.

“Of course”, the man said, clearly confused. 

Sherlock smiled at him. 

“I must be brutally frank with you, Mr. Baverstock”, he said. “In cases like this the would-be murderer has all the advantages. They can pick the time and place of their attack while those defending the target must be on guard all the time and everywhere. I had thought our only advantage was that the attack would have to come before the month is up which leaves us over a week to cover. But with what you have told me we can now force your attacker's hand.”

“How so?”, Mr. Baverstock asked, clearly puzzled. Sherlock turned to the constable. 

“In a conversation in the local tavern, which you should ensure is overheard, you will tell a fellow officer that the two gentlemen who have arrived today have brought news of Mr. Obadiah Baverstock's natural son Oliver recently arrived from the North to London, and that the new lord of the manor is planning to use the powers of the estate to will everything to him”, Sherlock said. “You will say that Mr. Baverstock is expecting the family lawyer down tomorrow afternoon, and since his son is safely in hiding he himself will be perfectly safe once the document is signed. The son will then immediately sell the estate once the period is up. I have no doubt that if that man at the inn is indeed your brother he will be maintaining a presence in the village, and the news will swiftly reach him. He will have but one night to react.”

He turned back to our host.

“This involves no danger for you, sir”, he said. “You must spend the night locked away at the back of the house. I will pretend to be you in your bed with the window slightly open. I will be armed, as will the doctor, who will stand guard outside the window.....”

“No!” Mr. Baverstock said forcibly. “This is my brother trying to kill me and in my own damn house! You may hide behind the screen in my room but I will be in my own bed, thank you very much. Armed and ready!”

I fully expected Sherlock to object to that but to my surprise he nodded. 

“One must respect the ancient tenet that an Englishman's home is his castle”, he said sonorously. “Very well. Although I doubt very much that a gun will be needed; I do not think your attacker would risk alerting the servants with a gunshot. A dagger or poison would be a much more likely means of securing his ends.”

“We shall see!” Mr. Baverstock said grimly.

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I was fortunate that the laundry-room at the back of the house offered an excellent view of the slightly open bedroom window, so that I had some shelter for my vigil. I knew that one of the other constables was on the roof watching for anyone approaching the house while a second one was patrolling the grounds, Constable Steadham being inside the house in the room adjoining Mr. Baverstock's bedroom. 

_Idiot_ , I thought as the patrolling constable was caught in the moonlight albeit against the wall next to the one with the open window. I stared again at that window; it was on the first floor but the house was almost completely covered in ivy and I knew, having tried it earlier, that it would support the weight of a man..... 

My musings were interrupted by the sound of a gunshot from inside the house and a cry of pain from the open window. I gasped. How on earth had an attacker got in? I tore round to the front door, opening it with the key that I had been given earlier, and raced up the stairs two at a time until I reached Mr. Baverstock's bedroom. There, lying prone and bleeding on the floor, was... a policeman?

I stared in confusion. Next to me Sherlock sighed.

“He did not have a gun, Mr. Baverstock”, he said patiently.

“He could have had a knife”, the man said petulantly. “I have the right to defend myself!”

Constable Steadham burst into the room followed quickly by his two fellow policemen. I frowned. I had been sure there had been only three officers keeping guard so who was lying on the floor?

“The attacker dressed himself as a policeman”, Sherlock explained pointing to the body on the floor. The fellow was still breathing though it was very ragged. Sherlock gently turned him over and Mr. Baverstock nodded.

“Elijah. That is him.”

“Well that just about wraps it up!”, Constable Steadham beamed. “Let's get him down to the station.”

“May I?” Sherlock asked, gesturing to the handcuffs the young constable had produced. He looked puzzled but handed them over.

“I suppose so, sir”, he said. 

Sherlock went to move back to the prone man and in doing so he passed Mr. Obadiah Baverstock. There was a sudden click - and our host was handcuffed! Constable Steadham stared at Sherlock as if he had gone mad.

“You want me to arrest the _victim?”_ he gasped.

Sherlock smiled.

“No, constable”, he said. “I want you to take in a multiple murderer. This man has killed four times and tonight he attempted his fifth murder. Gentlemen, may I present a man of many names, two of the latest of which were Mr. Norman Bostock and Mr. Obadiah Baverstock.”

I do not think that I have ever seen a transformation such as the one which befell the handcuffed man's features. He went from puzzled captive to enraged bull in seconds, and it took the strength of all three officers to pin him down. A second set of cuffs had to be clamped on him before he submitted.

“I was so bloody close!” he snarled. “But at least I put an end to a line of useless toffs like this bunch!”

Sherlock shook his head and leaned over to the prone man who, to my surprise, got up without any help. Only now did I recognize the red spot on his white shirt for fake blood. He grinned at us both. 

“I do not let potential suspects wield guns in my cases”, Sherlock said to the prisoner. “At least not unless I have made certain that they only carry blanks.”

The prisoner screamed in frustration and tried to launch himself at Sherlock, and the policemen took some effort to drag him away. I stared after them all in amazement.

“Come”, Sherlock said with a smile, putting a hand on my shoulder. “I think the soon-to-be new owner of this ancestral pile might be treating us all to a drink.”

“Or four!” I muttered.

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“'Mr. Norman Bostock' – that is I am sure not his real name but we have to call him something – was a friend of the late Mr. Obadiah Baverstock”, Sherlock began, “and he chanced to learn of the terms of that evil will. He saw an excellent chance to replace his friend, inherit the estate and become rich beyond his wildest dreams.”

We were sat downstairs after I had given Mr. Elijah Baverstock a quick check-up. The fellow's shirt was ruined but I suspected that he did not mind that overly much. At least he was still alive.

“Mr. Bostock knows that Mr. Elijah here is abroad, and that if there were to be any suspicious deaths then he would be a likely suspect”, Sherlock went on. “He fakes a telegram from Mr. Septimus Baverstock recalling the wayward son, and only once the latter is back in England do the deaths start. He is also careful to ensure they are only carried out when Mr. Elijah does not have an alibi. Thus Mr. Obadiah Baverstock's father and two of his brothers are dispatched into the next world.”

“On the pretext of keeping his 'friend' safe from his murderous brother he persuades Mr. Obadiah to move lodgings in remote Upminster, himself taking a room at the same establishment. As we know they were about to move again, except Mr. Bostock's plans involved moving his 'friend' into the next world and then assuming his identity. His choice of alias was quite deliberate, as that way 'Mr. Bostock' might be thought to have been killed in error for 'Mr. Baverstock'. Instead a fourth Baverstock had been dispatched from this world, his identity having been assumed by the villain that we caught tonight. He had the added advantage that as the 'new' Mr. Obadiah Baverstock he then had reason to move to the family estate. His last victim had been abroad for some years so it was highly unlikely that anyone in the village would recognize him as an impostor; people do change over the years after all.”

“I was particularly struck by Mrs. Keswick's most excellent description of the two men in that they appeared so very different. Rather like with the recent 'Mr. Noah Hailes' it sounded like we were being encouraged to take in those differences, which of course we were. So I laid a trap for him. I found Mr. Elijah here and persuaded him to visit the village and ask a lot of questions. As I had known it would, news of that soon reached Mr. Bostock. My offer of a trap seemed an excellent conclusion to his schemes; he could shoot dead the only man who could identify him as an impostor while claiming self-defence and he would be home free. Instead of which he is looking to the long drop at the end of a short rope.”

“I cannot thank you enough, Mr. Holmes”, our host said. “It has been more of an experience being back in the Old Country than I would ever have expected, and I look forward to returning to New South Wales as soon as the whole estate is sorted out.”

“Yes, we too must adjourn for a train back to London”, Sherlock said with a sigh, “or my doctor will be laying down the law to me about over-exerting myself. He is such a tyrant, you know!

I scowled at him.

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Postscriptum: Apart from the fact that he had come from North America, it proved impossible to establish the true identity of 'Mr. Norman Bostock'. At his trial his lawyer tried to use that as a defence, claiming one could not hang a man one did not know, but twelve good men and true took a different opinion and the killer was dispatched into the dark shades where he truly belonged.

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	16. Case 146: The Adventure Of The Sore Loser

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1888\. Vox populi. Ironically a phrase first used to decry those who would actually listen to the voice of the common people – and here someone does not like what that voice has to say, which means of course that said voice MUST be wrong, and the voters MUST try again until they get it right by electing him. Democracy? Pshaw!

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

Before relating the events surrounding this unusual case I am going to mention an incident which made both John and myself smile, although not for obvious reasons at the time. It is rather appropriate as while the case involved a sore loser, it started with a sore winner.

Someone is shaking his head at me for some strange reason.

One of the many minor matters in which I had helped out friends of friends was when a few months back there had been the successful case of securing justice against the vile Mr. Robert Gordon, whose persecution of Inspector Fraser Macdonald had driven the latter to attempt to take his own life. As a consequence of that case young Constable Chatton Smith who had been working for the inspector, had indeed ended up working under the inspector. Seven times in the same evening, from what some stepbrother that I no longer liked insisted on telling me!

I do not know his it is possible, but somehow Campbell is getting worse as he gets older!

Inspector Macdonald had brought Constable Smith to Baker Street just before the start of the Arlesburgh case as the young man had had a mild winter cough and his lover was.... well not exactly panicking. All right, he was panicking. I knew that many would have considered them the original odd couple; the constable would reach twenty the following year and the inspector would be forty less than twelve months later, but they clearly loved each other and the inspector was clearly very anxious about his new love. They had come back just over a week later as the cough had not cleared up as fast as the inspector had wished (which I suspected was 'instantly), and John had proscribed a tonic for the young man. He told me later that he had never seen a fellow so totally exhausted, nor had I missed the fact that the muscular inspector had once again remained with the young constable throughout and was visibly uneasy at even John examining him. The look of gratitude on the young fellow's face when John had recommended reduced 'activity' for a few weeks – he looked like he had won the lottery of life! 

As against the unbridled horror when his lover had asked for a date when 'normal service could resume' – I doubted that even my mother's stories could have elicited such a look. Well, probably. It was not a theory that I had the least intention of testing, that was for sure! Especially as she was currently working on 'The Thousand And One Nights', a story of a Moorish prince whose stamina was, as a group of handsome English lieutenants that he had captured had found out over nearly three years, phenomenal! 

I was of course happy for both our friends and not the least bit envious that my own relationship with John had not yet reached that stage. Nor did I think repeatedly ahead to the day when I could have him looking as utterly broken as what was left of Constable Smith, who had to find walking the beat extremely painful these days. The couple's move to Cumberland where the constable had secured a place in the local constabulary was now just weeks away and it was wonderful to see them so happy in their lives, over which as I said I was not the least bit envious.

Not that envious.

Shut up.

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It is one of the many wonderful things about John that he does not like to publish any of my mercifully few failed investigations, and even argues that some of them such as the recent Arnsworth Castle affair were in truth successes as I secured justice even if my clients had been less than happy with the result. This small matter concerning something unique to my own London was one which I was seemingly unable to resolve, although once again I was able to effect justice even if my client was again not one hundred per cent happy with the outcome.

All right, he was as unhappy as the Huffington-Brands had been. Which was fair enough as he was just as unpleasant.

One of the facets of London life is the many liveries and guilds representing the traders who keep the greatest city in the world the greatest city in the world. These are manifold and this story concerns the Worshipful Company of Turners, one of the few liveried organizations who were craftsmen rather than merchants. The former head of that organization, a Mr. Henry Stanswood-Bane, was, most unfortunately, my client in this case. He was an unprepossessing fellow of about fifty years of age and very clearly someone who was fond of the sound of his own voice, at least judging from a certain annoying acquaintance's of mine briefly holding up his quick drawing of ear-plugs out of my client's line of sight. I scowled at him for that, however much I may have wished for such aids just then.

“It is _most_ irregular, sir!” he snapped. “We recently had our annual election at which I had confidently and justifiably expected to be returned to office as head of our illustrious organization. Indeed there are many who think I would make a most excellent Lord Mayor one day. Instead I was cheated, cheated I tell you. That young scamp Barmouth won by the narrowest of margins, and I _demand_ justice.”

I thought unhelpfully of John's recent description of one of the plagues of modern society, the 'man-child' who regardless of their actual age acts like a two-year-old every time that they do not get their own way. I glanced across at my friend who blushed; if I found yet another baby's dummy drawn on someone's notes later then I would be having Words with that someone.

“As I am sure you are aware, Mr. Stanswood-Bane”, I said, shaking my head at my terrible friend, “I solve crimes for a living. There has evidently not been any crime here.”

“There most definitely has!” he countered. “A crime against democracy.”

“Are you saying that there was fraud in your recent electoral defeat?” I asked.

“I was _not_ defeated!” he said hotly. “That rogue Barmouth cheated, _cheated_ I tell you. He had people vote for him who had no right to vote!”

I knew that this was difficult ground, legally speaking. The recent Third Reform Act had made the right to vote consistent across most of the constituencies in parliament but doubtless ancient companies like the Turners had their own rules, most likely arcane ones.

“What sort of people were those?” John asked.

I thought that our client might well be needing his professional services soon, because he spluttered for nearly half a minute before he could force out the terrible, horrible and utterly dreadful answer to that question:

_“Women!”_

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“Women were never meant to work in _our_ profession”, Mr. Stanswood-Bane said once he had recovered from his nightmarish ordeal. “It is _quite_ unsuitable for them as they have neither the talent nor the skills, let alone the fact that a woman's place is in the home.”

I had a brief and wonderful image of introducing this idiot to Miss St. Leger. I might even have been tempted to pay for his hospital bill after. Or I might not.

“Did not Her Majesty recently praise the work of a female sculptor at an exhibition she visited?” John asked with an innocence that I did not believe for one minute. He was getting as bad as Campbell, damn him!

“That is _sculpting_ , not turning”, our client sniffed. _“Quite_ different. Somehow that rogue Barmouth discovered that there was no actual ban on women voting as we had had no female members when the rules had been drawn up. Regrettably we have somehow contrived to acquire some, from Lord alone knows where, and I was informed that they all turned out to support him.”

“How can you know that?” I challenged. “Was the vote not done by secret ballot?”

He flushed awkwardly.

“My position is that we need to clarify matters as to who is and is not entitled to vote”, he said, “something that I will do shortly.”

“But you lost the election”, John pointed out. _”Vox populi?”_

“Bugger _vox populi_ and that sort of crap!” our client said. “I want justice!”

I resolved at that precise moment that justice he would indeed have. To quote Portia from 'The Merchant Of Venice', more than he desiredeth'!

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I thought for some little time after our unpleasant visitor's departure before deciding that I would call in the offices of one of my more unusual acquaintances in this matter. John looked at me in alarm as I told him that, especially when I told him that he could not bring his gun to the meeting and demanded to know more as we took a cab westwards.

“His name, for present purposes, is Mr. Harley Quinton”, I said as we were driven along the busy streets of the capital. “He is part-Irish, part-Scots, and his background is so obscure that I doubt even Swordland's could flush it out, although the estimable Miss St. Leger has said that in the unlikely event of her ever having a free week, she might set herself it as the ultimate challenge.”

“What does he do?” John asked visibly anxious. It warmed me that he was so concerned for my welfare.

“Very little”, I said. “Which is a good thing.”

He looked at me in confusion.

“He is a man of _exceptional_ talent”, I explained. “If he had been of a criminal inclination then our police friends would have had their hands full, or at least fuller than they already are. I would not go so far as to call him lazy; he seems to merely enjoy watching all human life almost like an alien observer. He might even be one for all that is known about him! I was fortunate that I was able to perform him a small service concerning certain documents that he wished to obtain one time, so he may be inclined to assist me now.”

“How?” John asked dubiously.

“One of his favourite targets is gentlemen whom he considers that little bit too pompous”, I said. “I have a feeling that our latest client might just about fit the bill, and that Mr. Quinton will be in a position to tell us more about him. I would rather approach an outsider than the Worshipful Company, as my inquiries would most certainly get back to Mr. Stanswood-Bane in little or no time. Gossip in closed societies moves even faster than in the rest of the world.”

He nodded and we continued on our way, drawing up outside a small detached house in Paddington. John gasped as he looked at it in horror.

“Please God tell me that he does not live _there!”_ he exclaimed.

I could understand his reaction. Mr. Quinton had painted the outside of his house in a chequerboard pattern such that no two adjoining squares were the same colour. It looked like a gingham tablecloth that had had a nervous breakdown inside a paint factory.

“He lives there”, I sighed. “Just try not to look at it.”

He winced.

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Mr. Harley Quinton's 'dress sense' was, unfortunately, from the same design book as his exterior decorating. I was sure that there was a colour in the paint catalogue that was not on the boiler-suit thing he was wearing – well, fairly sure. That apart he had the appearance of a middle-aged bank clerk of unprepossessing appearance, and I thought wryly of old Lady Worplesdon's description of the fellow as 'so ugly, yet so wonderfully full of gossip about the people I do not like!' Including her good self if she had but known it!

“Mr. Holmes, Doctor Watson”, the fellow smiled. “What a pleasant surprise. I shall send down for coffee and cakes – I have a very nice chocolate log from the local bakery – then you can tell me what brings you here.”

There was probably some social etiquette rule about serving a chocolate log to guests, but the way that John's eyes lit up there was no way that I was going to bring it up. And from the smile on his face Mr. Quinton knew that full well! We waited for the food to arrive before I continued, not observing the way that John went straight for the log. There was definitely drool.

“I am here about a new client of mine”, I said. “A Mr. Henry Stanswood-Bane.”

Mr. Quinton winced as if I had said a bad word.

“A most unfortunate family”, he said. “He has two brothers, Anthony whom runs a questionable photographic business out of his Stepney pawn shop while Charles lives off the family money down in Deptford and has two illegitimate children that he believes his wife does not know about. As for their sister Evelyn I can but wonder if any of her five children are her husband's; she is fortunate that he is so set on his political career that he does not see – or perhaps chooses not to see - what she is really like! Families! If it is Horrid Henry you are after, then it must be about his losing his post as head of the Worshipful Company of Turners.”

“It is”, I said. “I wondered what you knew of him. He told me about his recent setback but, of course, I am sure that there is much more to matters.”

“You are right to be as cynical as you so often are”, Mr. Quinton said. “Even if in your line of business that is a safe enough wager; I doubt that any of London's turf accountants would have offered odds on it. Mr. Stanswood-Bane's difficulties go back some time, unsurprising given his foul nature, but they have increased considerably over the past year or so.”

“Why is that?” I asked. 

“He only narrowly won the election last year”, Mr. Quinton said, “when he defeated Mr. Peters by sixteen votes in three hundred. It was a frankly horrendous campaign on his part; blackmail, bribery, intimidation, threats – dear Signor Machiavelli would have been _most_ envious. So would most of our politicians in Westminster if they thought that they could get away with such behaviour, including his useless brother-in-law. It is fortunate that Mr. Stanswood-Bane's ambitions are directed towards the Mayoralty, which considering how unpopular he is beyond his own guild he has absolutely no chance of ever winning. Not that he sees that, of course.”

“But he won his vote last year”, John said through a mouthful of chocolate.

We both looked at him. He blushed wonderfully and returned to his rapidly diminishing log.

“There was however a price for that victory”, Mr. Quinton said with a smile. “There was a suspicion that he or his agents may have tampered with the ballot boxes, which he most likely had. The Board of the Worshipful Company threatened to force the whole thing to be run again and he would most likely have lost given all the bad publicity, but they accepted a compromise whereby the local church was to do the official count from then on. It helped if not saved his cause that his opponent Mr. Peters was not that well-liked, his sole positive attribute being that he was not Mr. Henry Stanswood-Bane. Since his victory his arrogance has of course resurfaced and this year he came up against someone rather more likeable, with the all too predictable result.”

“Surely even a church group could be bribed?” I asked. Mr. Quinton smiled.

“Normally I would agree with you”, he said, “but the Reverend Pius Jones is aptly named. I am sure that when _he_ reaches Heaven, even the saints will have to buck their ideas up!”

“Is there anything else that you can tell us about Mr. Stanswood-Bane?” I asked.

“You mean apart from his bad breath, rampant misogyny, cruelty to animals and mistreatment of his servants?” Mr. Quinton asked. “He does have form for anti-Semitism and he is most definitely a racist. It is fortunate for him that neither of those group's targets is particularly well-represented among the Turners as of yet. His wife, most appropriately, was originally called Miss Caroline Serpell-Goodtime.”

“Why do you say 'appropriately'?” John asked (he had finally finished his third slice and was now into the staring hopefully at the remaining log). Mr. Quinton smirked and cut him another slice. More drool.

“Because”, our host said, “she was and still is the original good time, _had_ by all!”

I smiled at that and thought for a moment.

“What in your opinion will Mr. Stanswood-Bane do next?” I asked.

“If London's most famous yet least modest consulting detective is unable to help him”, Mr. Quinton said (quite unfairly in my opinion), “and if the Board refuses his request for a second vote, his only option is to invoke an article in the Company's rules that entitle him to a recount. He will be able to do that because the margin of victory was less than ten per cent. That is the only arrow in his quiver and given the Reverend's control of the count it will yield him nothing, which is why he has come to you.”

 _“Will_ they grant him a second vote?” I asked.

“Only if he can prove to the Company that the first one was irregular in some way”, Mr. Quinton said. “Most of the Board do not like him and he has not bothered to win their support as he can more easily bribe those further down, since they will do the 'right' thing for less money. That reminds me, I forgot to add miserliness to his long list of failings.”

“Interesting”, I said. “This will most definitely be a challenge.”

“Democracy so often is”, Mr. Quinton said. “The better the form of government, the more chance that someone will want to ruin it. By the way doctor, the log comes from Paston's, a small bakery next to the station. Just so you know where to call on the way back to Baker Street.”

John flushed bright red. And yes, we did call in there.

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It was a week later and flaming June was living up (or down) to its name. John opened the 'Times' and frowned when he read the small article that I had ringed in the bottom-right corner of the front page.

“Mr. Stanswood-Bane will be pleased with you”, he said a little stiffly. “The Worshipful Company of Turners has decided to organize a second vote for their new Master after reports about outside interference in the first seem to have been confirmed. I am surprised that he is not round here already.”

“He sent a short telegram yesterday acknowledging my services and that his cheque would follow”, I said.

“No thanks, then”, John noted.

“I did not expect any from the likes of him”, I smiled. “But I am sure that he will be round himself, one way or another.”

He nodded and returned to the paper, missing my slight smile.

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Mr. Stanswood-Bane was indeed round the very next day. I had taken the precaution of already banking his cheque which had arrived the previous evening, as I had had a feeling he might perhaps be not quite as pleased as he had been on the Sabbath.

He was indeed not quite as pleased as he had been on the Sabbath.

“This is terrible, Mr. Holmes!” he thundered. “I got back after a pleasant day's shooting with Lord Cullercoats yesterday evening and all hell had broken loose! Mr. Robarts who sits on the Board was waiting for me and claimed that my own wife had.... that she had approached him with an end to persuading him to vote for me!”

“What was wrong with that?” I asked innocently. “A wife of someone seeking office is not barred from canvassing on her husband's behalf, surely?”

“It was the way he said she did it”, Mr. Stanswood-Bane snapped. “She.... offered certain inducements.”

“She tried to bribe him?” John asked innocently. I kept back a snigger, knowing exactly how the lady in question had gone about her 'persuasion'. Our guest turned even redder.

“Not only is Joscelyn a happily married man, he told me that a few hours later she went and tried the same thing with that young whipper-snapper Ponting. As if any woman would ever look twice at _him!”_

John contrived to make a quick sketch of a pot and a kettle which he held up behind our unwelcome guest. He really was getting worse!

“That is only two votes”, I said soothingly while shooting my friend an annoyed look, “and you said that it is the craftsmen who back you, not so much the Board.”

“That is true”, he admitted, calming down a little. “They all like me.”

At least half of them do not, I thought acidly. But I said nothing. Our visitor could not know that his troubles were just beginning.

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The following day three more Board members were approached by a woman describing herself as Mrs. Stanswood-Bane who made it clear that she would do _anything_ to get their votes. Fortunately Mr. Stanswood-Bane was kept busy dashing around trying to put out the fires that my actress friend had started. The fact that his wife was actually spending time with one of her many lovers in the East End while supposedly visiting a friend in Shoeburyness would make it somewhat difficult for her to prove her innocence.

On Wednesday Mr. Stanswood-Bane himself was back in Baker Street.

“I want action!” he demanded. “The Company newsletter has come out with the most outrageous slur on my good name!”

“What kind of slur is that?” I inquired.

“They say that I am trying to win my rightful post back by debarring anyone of non-English stock!” he snorted. “I did say in an interview that we should obviously not allow foreigners in, but they deliberately misinterpreted me!”

“What _precisely_ did you say, sir?” I asked patiently. “I must have the exact words before I can advise you.”

He thought for a moment.

“I think I said no darkies or their ilk”, he said sullenly. “Also that we should be like Noah's Ark in the Bible, kicking out the unclean beasts.”

I sighed and shook my head at him.

“That, I am afraid, was _most_ unwise on your part.”

“What? Why?”

“Because any half-decent lawyer will be able to show that you were thereby invoking the Biblical definition of that fateful word 'ilk'”, I said. “In ancient times and right through to the Reformation it meant anything up to nine degrees of separation, within which marriage was prohibited unless by explicit permission of the head of the Church.”

He looked at me in confusion.

“So?” he asked.

“So”, I said, “you have therefore implied that any member of your organization who has a foreign ancestor _up to nine generations back_ should not be allowed to vote. That, if my calculations are correct, covers a potential seven hundred plus ancestors in each case, taking us roughly back to the English Civil War. Given the cosmopolitan nature of our city, that bar would affect a large number of those entitled to vote.”

He stared at me in horror.

“They cannot possibly think that I meant such a thing!” he protested.

“A disobliging lawyer could make sure that the law was interpreted that way”, I said heavily. “The law is but words, after all. This is bad, very bad. Any Company member who has a foreign antecedent in the past two centuries would think that you are trying to deny them their right to vote, and I very much doubt that they would be happy over it.”

“No-one would ever think that!” he said hotly.

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“They all bloody well think that!”

It was Thursday and a special edition of the Company newsletter had implied exactly what I had foretold. Mr. Stanswood-Bane was seething. I thought quietly that his cheque would have cleared today; I had had Miss St. Leger apply pressure on the bank to make sure they moved quickly.

We can only hope that not everyone reads the newsletter”, I said. “Or indeed, today's copy of the 'Times'.

Even his ruddy complexion went pale.

“What do you mean, the 'Times'?” he demanded.

I handed him the newspaper.

“This morning, Mrs. Grendon petitioned for a divorce from her husband.”

He looked at me in confusion. 

“Ted's wife?” he asked. “I knew that they were having problems but he seemed happy enough.”

 _“He_ might well be”, I said. “In the petition she has named a woman who – and she has evidence to support this claim – has been seeing her husband for some time. Your own wife!”

He stared at me in horror.

“I am afraid that there is even worse”, I said with as much sincerity as I could muster (precious little). “Mrs. Grendon's doctor says that she has picked up a disease from her husband which could only have been transmitted sexually – and that somehow, they know that your wife has it too!”

He stared at me in horror. I could almost feel sorry for him.

'Almost' as in 'not even remotely'.

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The following Sunday John and I went to St. Faith's church where, after the mid-day service, the votes from the previous day's election for the new Master of the Worshipful Company of Turners were being counted. The Reverend Pius Jones was indeed like his name, and I did not smirk when John visibly straightened up as he was in receipt of that clerical stare. 

I did not smirk, as I was doing exactly the same.

There were only four large ballot boxes to open and representatives of both candidates were present. Mr. Stanswood-Bane had I knew tried desperately to persuade the Board to allow a third candidate to stand in the hope of splitting the vote against him but to no avail, and as the piles of counted papers mounted up it was clear that one was maybe just a bit higher than the other. There were about three hundred and fifty members eligible to vote and I expected turnout to be high given all that had happened. Mr. Barmouth, my client's rival, was a bluff blond fellow in his late forties whose smile I watched grow as the count proceeded. With good reason.

Finally the vicar stood up to announce the result:  
_“Mr. James Barmouth, three hundred and six votes.”_  
_“Mr. Henry Stanswood-Bane, fourteen votes.”_  
_“Turnout was eighty-seven per cent and there were three spoilt papers. Mr. James Barmouth wins by two hundred and ninety-two votes.”_

My client had already left. John smiled at me.

“Technically I failed in this case”, I pointed out. “Mr. Stanswood-Bane did not get what he wanted.”

“No”, he agreed, “but he definitely got what he deserved! A trip to that restaurant that serves all-day bacon breakfasts?”

As I said, I knew that there was a reason I kept him around!

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	17. Interlude: Strike Four!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1888\. Sexual healing.

_[Narration by Mr. Lucifer Garrick, Esquire]_

With what little remained of my brain, I wondered if this was Bertha's way of dealing with her husband going off and sleeping with another man for money – by ensuring that said husband killed said other man through sex! Benji was walking me around the room still thrusting away while I hung limply to him and let him have his way with me. Yet he was the one crying!

For all that he was built like the proverbial brick outhouse, there were some things that poor Benji just could not cope with. And one of them was anything to do with emotions; the sap had cried at his own wedding, to his and his wife's mortification. But that had been nothing to what had followed, because as Bertha popped out little Jackson-Giles after little Jackson-Giles, every one of the mites had to be christened. Which meant two periods of mental angst for the behemoth, the birth itself and then the christening. Which meant that with his wife not long having given birth she packed him off round to me to 'work off' his emotional distress. Never mind emotional distress; I had several body parts that might never recover!

Lord but it was wonderful!

“And little Petie was so good!” Benji sobbed, thrusting hard into me as he walked me over to the window (and the tightly closed curtains; I had known what day it was). “Another son; I'm so damn lucky!”

Barely nine months after Margaret, I thought; the horny bastard must be doing it in the recovery room! And another bank account I would be opening for birthday and Christmas presents until Mr. Peter Jackson-Giles reached twenty-one, so that he could have a good start in life. I might have regretted that promise but Benji was always so happy and looked at me as if I had hung the moon whenever we celebrated his children's birthdays. 

I might even live to see my own next birthday. With luck.....

“I'm tired”, Benji said, walking me over to the door. “Bed, Mr. Lucifer sir?”

It was not even dinner-time but bed sounded.... oh Lord no. Bed meant the stairs with the Banjax still inside of me...

I passed out before he reached the top. I was so damn lucky!

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	18. Case 147: Flight Of The Batman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1888\. Once again a large organization – the British Army - tries to cover up its failings, and once again Sherlock steps in to put things right. Also as has been seen before, some people cannot take a hint until it comes in a decidedly final (and fatal) form.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentioned also as the death of Major Molesey.  
> TW: Non-graphic implication of male rape.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

This was most evidently a dire emergency. The newly-promoted Inspector LeStrade had come round to Baker Street and it was _not_ one of Mrs. Hudson's baking days. I told Sherlock that we should definitely prepare for the worst, earning myself a full eye-roll.

“You are far too cynical, John!” he chided me as we heard our friend's heavy step approaching. 

All right I was cynical. But as it turned out I was also correct, and our newly-promoted friend was about to send us into one of the strangest cases that we had ever been involved in, and also unusually one with connections to a previous case where I had also sensed that something was 'off'. Finally, also a case whose outcome disgusted me more than I had thought possible with an institution that I had hitherto held in the highest esteem. The British Army.

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“Do you remember your case with Mr. James Douglas?” our friend began.

I nodded. The Greek Interpreter Case, a strange case of impersonation where Mr. Jason Douglas had tried to bring about an international incident by kidnapping and then attempting to impersonate his twin brother James, a famed translator, in talks between the ever-hostile Greeks and Ottomans, his clear intent to assist his Turkish friends. Sherlock had told me that some seer that he had met in Scotland while I had been a thousand miles away in Egypt had told him that he would save the life of Mr. James Douglas twice and he had done so the first time, yet I also remember having had the distinct impression that there had been something my friend had been withholding from me. Still, I respected Sherlock's right not to tell me everything, even if it had irked me just a little that time.

'Someone' looked pointedly at me. All right it had irked me a whole damn lot. _Like his freakish mind-reading abilities right now!_

“James Douglas's middle name is Edward”, the inspector said. “I mention that because his parents, I suppose for want of imagination, named the third brother James as well. James Stephen, known to the family as Jimmy. He's upped and disappeared.”

 _Another Mr. James Douglas_ , I thought. I hoped fervently that whatever my friend was called upon to do this time would not put his own life in danger.

“You wish for us to find him?” Sherlock asked.

The inspector scratched his head. I groaned inwardly; that surely meant that there was some horrible complication to matters. And because I was only ever right when I assumed the worst, LeStrade promptly proceeded to prove me right.

“Jimmy Douglas is – was - in the Army”, he said. “The Second Rushcliffe Regulars, based in Nottinghamshire. Against his family's wishes I was told, but he was determined and got his way; he joined at eighteen a few years back as he's a few years younger than his brothers. Some time last month he deserted from his regiment, and he has somehow managed to vanish off the face of the earth! Not only that, it was the day after one Major Molesey died in suspicious circumstances at the barracks – and Douglas had been the major's batman!”

_(I should explain here to readers of the mid twentieth century that this had nothing to do with cricket or any sport. Historically a batman had been someone who organized a senior officer's bate (packhorse), but by the time of this story it had evolved into simply a junior officer who served a senior one as a manservant. The post was discontinued after the Great War)._

Sherlock looked at our friend curiously.

“Leaving aside the month's delay”, he said, “which as I am sure you are aware makes the case much more difficult, why you, LeStrade? You know as well as I do that the British Army is almost as bad as the Metropolitan Police Service when it comes to keeping investigations 'in house', as they call it.”

“I've a funny feeling about this”, our friend said. “I just think it's worth investigating. Don't know why, though.”

Sherlock just stared at him. I silently started counting. I did not get past ten.

“I hate it when you do that!” the policeman grumbled (I could empathize!). “All right. Fleming, the sergeant on the spot, was at Hendon with me and we graduated together. He's from the area where the boy vanished; he had the investigation until someone took it out of his hands and he was told not to pursue matters – _or else!”_

I shuddered involuntarily. I remembered the case of Mr. William Hudson which had brought us here to Baker Street but which had also been followed by my three-year rupture with Sherlock. I did not want to go through that horror again.

Sherlock continued to stare at our visitor.

“We're going to have you down the station and do that to the criminals”, LeStrade grumbled. “Poor blighters will be confessing in seconds. Yes, there's something else. Fleming told me it in confidence, though.”

“Go on”, Sherlock said.

“His station's in a place called Cotgrave, covering the county south of Nottingham”, LeStrade said. “He has a sister not far from there, in a village called Langar. He went to see her just after the case had been taken out of his hands - and he saw his very own chief-inspector drinking in the pub there.”

“Even _chief-_ inspectors are allowed some vices, LeStrade”, Sherlock smiled. “Beer, cigars..... _cake!”_

The inspector blushed fiercely and stared downwards. The plate in front of him could not have been any emptier if he had licked it clean.

“Ahem!” he said, rather too loudly. “Thing is, the fellow wasn't alone. He was with a local criminal, a Mr. Jonathan Kerry – and his son of the same name is a lance-corporal in the barracks where Major Molesey died and Jimmy Douglas disappeared!”

“How do you know that this man is a criminal?” I asked.

“He works out of Nottingham”, LeStrade said, “so he was known to Fleming. Three things I'd like to know. What was the crim doing out in the middle of nowhere, why was he talking with a copper who according to Fleming says never leaves his desk except to visit the bathroom? And why did this case get removed from Fleming's hands just one day later, with him being all but threatened in the process?”

“How bad is this man?” I asked, worriedly.

“Very bad, so Fleming says”, LeStrade sighed. “They call him 'King John The Second', because Sherwood Forest is down the road.”

“Gotham”, I said sagely.

“How did you know?” LeStrade demanded. I looked at him in confusion.

“How did I know what?” I asked. 

“That was where Jimmy Douglas disappeared”, the inspector said. “The regiment was camped between there and Thrumpton, which is on the Trent a couple of miles away.”

“I just remembered it from history”, I said, a tad defensively. “Legend says that Bad King John was going to pass through the village, but the villagers knew that if he did their road would become The King's Highway and they would then have to pay to maintain it. So they pretended that they were all suffering from madness which at the time was thought to be highly infectious.”

“Did it work?” Sherlock asked, evidently amused by my historical knowledge. 

“Almost too well”, I said. “It deterred the king all right, but then the other villages nearby refused to trade with them until the 'outbreak' was over.”

“It looks like we are in for a trip to Robin Hood's county, then”, Sherlock smiled. “If of course the surgery can spare you, doctor?”

Fortunately the owners of the surgery were more than pleased with me just then. Brett & Burke, my publishers, had wanted to produce a small set of high-quality limited edition versions of each story thus far, and as there were to be sixteen each of the sixteen stories published, I had agreed to sign all two hundred and fifty-six (my poor wrist!) on condition that a quarter of the profits went to the surgery who made my sometimes wayward existence possible (I had also made sure that half of that 'gift' would be shared out among my fellow doctors who covered for my sporadic absences). A further quarter would also go to Sherlock's orphanage to help refurbish an old wing there.

“I am sure that they will be more than obliging”, I smiled.

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LeStrade had arranged for his friend Sergeant Fleming to meet us off the train at Kegworth so the following morning we duly decamped to St. Pancras Station for a train to Nottinghamshire. I noticed that Sherlock seemed strangely thoughtful and asked him why.

“This case worries me”, he said. “I have been monitoring for some time a new and very dangerous type of criminal behaviour. One which is not criminal.”

“What?” I was confused.

“Having a police service is all very well”, Sherlock said, “but what happens when that service itself chooses to follow a dark path, like in the Spencer John Gang case? _Quis custodiet ipsos custodes†_ as the saying goes.”

“Who guards the guards”, I translated, thinking again of the way in which poor Mr. William Hudson had been effectively done to death by the British government. And the break in my relationship with Sherlock that had followed soon after.

We were unusually silent as our train steamed through the dingy northern suburbs of the Great Wen and made its way through the Home Counties. My bad feeling about this case had not gone away at all.

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We duly met Sergeant Edward Fleming off the train at Kegworth. He was a tall solidly-built young fellow in his mid-thirties with what seemed like a permanently worried expression on his face.

“I arranged to put you gentlemen up in the village”, he said as our cab trundled across a bridge towards what was presumably Kegworth, yet another place some distance from the station that was meant to serve it. “We have just crossed into Leicestershire you see, and I am hoping that that will mean the people involved in this are less likely to learn of your being involved for a while.”

I wondered at his tone which seemed to imply that he was actually afraid of these 'people'. Who might well be his fellow policemen.

“There seems very little to go on”, Sherlock observed. “I am to assume that there have been no further developments in the case?”

“Not as such, sirs”, the sergeant said. “Once you have dropped off your bags I have set up a meeting with Private Balliston. He quit the Army since all this went down and is living in Shepshed. He is meeting us at Whatton just south of here, my sister's cottage. It is nearer.”

Sherlock tilted his head to one side and looked inquiringly at the policeman.

“It is _that_ bad?” he asked.

“Yes!” the policeman said fervently.

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“Why did you ask that?” I asked as we paused briefly in the room of the inn where we were staying. The place was comfortable enough but I was growing increasingly concerned with the direction in which this case seemed to be heading. 

He looked pointedly at me.

“Shepshed is a small town some miles south of here”, he said, “yet rather than us go to him or his coming here close to the county border, this man wishes to meet us in some out-of-the-way place where, he presumably hopes, there is less chance of our encounter reaching the ears of certain important and powerful people. This man is afraid, Watson, if not terrified for his life!”

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He was as ever right. Former private Niall Balliston was a solidly built fellow in his mid-twenties and was clearly a loss to His Majesty's armed forces. From the start he looked visibly nervous even though Sergeant Fleming had dropped us at a small cottage outside the village and said that he would be back in an hour to pick us up.

“Why did you leave the Army?” Sherlock asked bluntly.

“'Cause I didn't want them to end me the same way they ended poor Jimmy!” the man said, wide-eyed. “He's a goner, I'm sure.”

The man had a thick Irish accent, I noted. Sherlock looked at him thoughtfully.

“You have some item pertinent to the case?” he asked. 

The ex-soldier somehow contrived to look even more terrified.

“How.... how on earth did you know that?” he demanded. “I didn't even tell Ned that! There's no way you could....

“Because if it was just your word against those of a number of your former colleagues”, Sherlock interrupted, “you would not be so fearful. I believe that the absent Mr. James Douglas came into possession of an item that may in some way have confirmed the guilt of one of those officers, and that most unhappily they came to know or suspect that. That was why he disappeared – or as they are wont to say nowadays however ungrammatically, 'he was disappeared'.”

The man shuddered but rose and went across to a writing-desk, which he unlocked. He extracted a silver hip-flask, clearly of the highest quality, which he handed to Sherlock. The detective looked hard at it.

“Birmingham hallmark”, he said. “Some of that city's best work and I would hazard that the crest on it is a family one as it is not military. The owner is – or was – an elderly gentleman, most probably a soldier who served overseas at one time, likely in the Far East. He was careful of his possessions and was very proud of his local heritage. Major Molesey?”

“Yes sir”, the man said clearly astonished. “You knew him?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“I did not know anything about him at all until you showed me that flask.”

The man stared at him in confusion. I knew how he felt.

“There is a heraldic tendency”, Sherlock said with what was definitely an annoying nod, “which our esteemed private railway companies seem particularly prone to, that one is only deemed to have 'made it' when one has a personal coat of arms even if it has not been officially approved by the Garter King in London. The bear and ragged staff in the top left represents the county of Warwickshire, which is not that far from here, and the flag above is a saltire. That would usually suggest a Scottish ancestry but the slightly darker shading of the cross indicate that it is instead the flag of the ancient Mercian kingdom, which covered this area in the Dark Ages.”

“But how did you know that he served out East?” I asked. 

Sherlock carefully opened the flask and held it under my nose. I winced.

“Any concoction strong enough to leave an odour like that must have been regularly imbibed”, my friend said. “I can detect at least three spices that I know originate primarily in the East Indies, which suggests that he became enamoured of this concoction most likely when he served out there. It is fashionable for such men upon returning home to have such drinks made up in England, presumably to remind them of their time abroad. Furthermore people tend to keep all large objects in the coat pocket that corresponds with their principal hand. From the faint marks that are present on this flask against its age from the hallmark, I would say that the owner most probably had a leather pouch made to fit around and thus protect it from rubbing against his keys. He cared for this item.”

“I'm impressed, sir”, our host said, “that you got all that from just looking at it.”

Sherlock gave him a level look.

“I rather fear that I know something more”, he said quietly. “This object was instrumental in its owner's death, and most likely in the subsequent disappearance of your fellow soldier.”

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The silence in the room was palpable. Then our host sighed.

“I owe it to Jimmy to tell the truth”, he said heavily, “even if they do come after me. This is how it happened, sirs.”

He took a deep, ragged breath.

“The flask was owned by Major Walter Molesey”, the man said. “Very old-school but sound as a bell when it came to fighting, and he came down hard on anyone who picked on me and the other Irishmen in the regiment. A bastard if you fell short of his demands, but he was like that to everybody and we respected him for it.”

“It all started going bad when his brother moved to the area and his nephew Dick joined our regiment as a lance-corporal. You see sirs, our own Lance-Corporal Mr. Kerry, he was expecting to be promoted soon and before the major's nephew arrived with the major due to retire in four months his promotion had looked cut and dried. His father's something big in the county and all. But then the major said he'd been asked to stay on for a year. Of course we all knew he hadn't; he was doing it so his nephew could do the required time; that way he could be the one to replace him.”

Our host took a stiff drink – I winced as I noticed the nearly empty decanter on the sideboard - and paused before continuing.

“The regimental doctor, Keith Pickford, had to have been in on it”, he said. “The major was taken ill after dinner one evening, his stomach pains got steadily worse and he died before midnight. The doctor said that it had been food poisoning and he'd just been unlucky – several other people at the meal claimed to have been ill as well - but we all suspected he'd been bumped off. It was the talk of the barracks as I'm sure you can guess, except for Jimmy who was the Major's batman. He said nothing about the whole incident, and although he hadn't been at the dinner that still seemed a bit rum.”

“The morning after I went for a wash, and came back to find Jimmy feeling about under my bed. He stood up and said he'd gone and dropped a pencil – he had one in his hand all right – and it had rolled under there. I thought nothing of it at the time but that was where I found the flask later. Jimmy had been on duty the night the major died and I think he saw or heard something. He must've put the flask under my bed, though Lord alone knows why.”

“Have you any idea where he may have gone?” Sherlock asked. 

The man shook his head.

“But if you're staying up in Kegworth you may want to go and speak with young Mr. Hallam”, he said. “He lives in the woods just outside Gotham, not far from the barracks.”

“What is his involvement in the matter?” I asked.

“Maybe none”, he said. “But if Jimmy left camp and headed down the Trent, Gotham is the first place he'd have come to. The wood is.... it's special.”

We stared at him in confusion.

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Back in Kegworth, Sergeant Fleming was able to expand on the ex-soldier's vague description.

“The road through Gotham was an old Roman one”, he said, “and in the wood they built a small temple to the god Apollo as the god of prophecy. Nothing there now of course except a few foundations. But the place acquired a reputation that those who went there could, if the old god favoured them, acquire the Sight.”

 _More supernatural hogwash_ , I thought, maybe a tad uncharitably. He noted my scepticism and smiled.

“At the start of the year a fellow called Mr. Hallam came and did up an old hut that had been built near the temple”, he said. “He is said to be able to see the future and all, if you believe in that sort of thing.

“Like the famous seer Teiresias”, I smiled. 

The sergeant stared at me, nonplussed. Clearly Greek seers were not his strong point.

“Well that is as may be”, he said. “But I do know one thing. They call the wood Reynard's Bolt because if a fox flees in there, the hounds will not follow no matter what. I have seen that myself; we tracked a chap in the village one time and the dog nearly threw a fit when we tried to lead it down towards the wood. They do say that animals can sense things humans cannot.”

“Curious”, Sherlock said. “Possibly an excellent place to hide out. We must go there tomorrow.”

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“How was the major poisoned, do you think?” I asked Sherlock later.

“I suspect some form of alkali”, he said. “The taste of some poisons in that category is not unlike the bitter flavour of the late major's eastern concoction, which would mean a few critical seconds before he would have realized the danger. Which means....”

He stopped. I knew what it meant. We were now investigating at least one murder. Possibly two.

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People tend to assume that all writers are highly imaginative and that the smallest thing can set us off fantasizing about strange new worlds complete with new lives and new civilizations. They forget that my own writings were mostly fact, changing certain details only to protect the identities of those who deserved protecting. I actually consider myself fairly unimaginative – but I will admit that there was something about that small and seemingly normal wood just outside a Nottinghamshire village that fairly terrified me! Sherlock looked at me with some concern as we approached the little cottage but fortunately his attention was diverted when the door opened a fraction of a second before he could knock. 

The fellow in the doorway was..... I was not sure what to make of him except that he seemed vaguely familiar from somewhere. He was not unlike Sherlock except his hair was brown, and his eyes were a strange light shade of blue rather than my friend's electric hue. I was sure that I had never met......

It was surprising that it took me so long to realize, considering how attuned Sherlock and I were to each other at this time. He seemed even more stunned at the fellow's appearance than me. But why?

“Mr. Shelton Hallam, at your service”, the fellow smiled. “I believe that I have something of yours, gentlemen?” 

He led the way back inside. Inside it was of course dark, only one small window giving any light. A figure was sat by the fire, heavily wrapped up in at least three blankets and did not seemingly react until our host spoke.

“Jimmy?”

I hope never again to see what I saw when Sherlock moved out of the light from the doorway. It was like poor Mr. Benjamin Hope from the Tankerville Club case when he had been brought to our Cramer Street rooms for treatment; this man too had that same look as if he had just switched off from the world around him. What on earth had happened to him?

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Mr. Hallam took a seat beside Mr. Jimmy Douglas, while Sherlock sat next to me. I knew that he must surely have been as shocked as I was at the wreckage of humanity before me, but I sensed that there was something else in play here, and that it concerned not Mr. Douglas but Mr. Hallam. Nothing passed between him and Sherlock, yet..... 

“It is not a pretty story”, Mr. Hallam said, cutting into my thoughts, “but you will need the whole tale if you are to bring justice down on the men who.... broke Jimmy.”

 _He had been about to say something else there_ , I thought. _But what?_

“As you know, gentlemen”, he went on, “Jimmy was batman to Major Walter Moseley. A decent enough old soldier apart from the usual advancing the relatives thing; the Army has far, far worse on its books. Which brings me to that vile piece of excrement called Lance-Corporal Jonathan Kerry. How such a specimen of sub-humanity could rise even that far in the Army is a sad indictment of our armed forces today. You will have to use all your powers to bring him and his equally toxic father to justice, let alone the rest of the King's Men.”

“Am I to assume you have a suggestion as to how I do that?” Sherlock asked mildly. Our host smiled.

“I would have suggested dear Mrs. Kyndley”, he said to my astonishment, “but with her planning for that French holiday that she has already had to cancel once for, ahem, business reasons, that would be rather inconsiderate. Perhaps instead you might ask Mr. Bow?”

Sherlock's eyebrows shot up. He was rarely surprised, so this had to be serious.

“Who is Mr. Bow?” I asked plaintively. Mr. Hallam glanced at Sherlock and he nodded.

“An associate of Mrs. Kyndley and one of the top assassins in London Town”, he said. “Like her, if he decides that you are better off dead, you had best write a will and arrange your funeral.”

“Also you should take out life insurance”, Sherlock agreed. He looked again at the shivering man next to him and reached over to take his hand. Jimmy Douglas shuddered but accepted the contact. I felt a strange feeling in the pit of my stomach, and Mr. Hallam looked at me far too knowingly.

“When that soldier and his cronies poisoned Major Molesey”, our host said, “they were careless. The camp doctor, Pickford, was in on it so it seemed that there was no danger. But when he lay dying the major knew what had been done to him. He managed to call Jimmy in to fetch help and he gave him his flask. The boy was sharp and he worked out what had really happened.”

“Unfortunately Lance-Corporal Kerry must have suspected. He and some of his cronies cornered Jimmy and tried to force what he knew out of him. They.... threw him in their barracks gaol but the fellows in charge suspected something of what had happened and arranged for him to break out. Knowing the legend of the wood he very wisely made for here. They used dogs to track him, but no animal comes into my wood if I do not wish it.”

Again I had the distinct impression that there was something unspoken there, although I had no idea what.

“They came here?” I asked. He nodded.

“I took Jimmy's uniform and laid a false trail to the other side of the village then left it in the middle of a field”, he smiled. “Doubtless they were wondering how he grew wings and flew off into the sunset!”

“When is the next meeting of the King's Men?” Sherlock asked.

“The day after tomorrow at Mr. Kerry's house just outside Nottingham”, Mr. Hallam said. 

My friend turned to me. I knew what he was going to say before he said it.

“No!” I said firmly. “I am coming with you.”

“Actually I was going to suggest that we talk to Mr. Kerry before the meeting”, he said disarmingly. “Better that he knows what lies in wait so he can communicate it to his fellow criminals.”

“Including the chief-inspector”, Mr. Hallam put in.

Perhaps there was something to his abilities after all, I thought. I wondered if he had any advice on horse-racing....

He shook his head at me. Damnation, now I had two of them at it!

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Mr. Hallam told us that Mr. Kerry would be taking a walk around his home village of Radcliffe after breakfast the following morning, which meant that we had an early start (yes, Sherlock had nearly all of my bacon!) so that we could set off and intercept him. There was no missing him from the seer's description; a tall grey-haired patrician of a man who clearly knew his place in society which was far above almost everyone else. He looked up curiously as he saw us blocking his path.

“Who might you be, sirs?” he snapped, and I noticed his hand moving to his coat pocket. I was glad that I had brought my revolver and that I had it cocked and ready.

Sherlock smiled.

“My name is Mr. Sherlock Holmes”, he said, “and this is Doctor John Watson. I am pleased to inform you, sir, that the game is up.”

“What do you mean?” the fellow demanded. Sherlock smiled unpleasantly.

“A certain chain of events is about to be set in motion”, he said. “Either automatically, some seven days from noon today, or sooner should you be foolish enough to try to pre-empt it with a move against myself or any of my acquaintances. You see sir, I know all about your son's murder of Major Molesey, his brutal treatment of poor Private James Douglas, and your friendship with the local chief-inspector of police.”

“I had nothing to do with that old fool's death!” the man snorted. “And since when is it a crime to have coppers as friends?”

I noted that he had not denied the accusation about the escaped private. Sherlock shook his head at him.

“That will not do, sir”, he said. “Besides you are confusing justice and the law. I represent justice for the dead Major Molesey, and for Private Douglas abused and beaten by your son and his friends. I do not care for the law as such, useful though it is at times.”

“Sir...”

“You and the rest of the King's Men have one week from noon today to leave the United Kingdom”, Sherlock said. “That is more than generous on my part, given your foul dealings.”

“And if we do not?” the man sneered. Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

“I have my own 'useful contacts'”, he said. “Someone who owes me a favour for a rather large helping hand that I gave him at a most difficult time in his own life. He prefers London but knows that I am quite prepared to pay for his expenses to travel to the country in order to practice his trade. That trade is assassination. His success rate is one hundred per cent, a record that he is anxious to maintain as he is not that far from retirement.”

The man had gone pale, his bluster vanished as if it had never been.

“Should any of you be in the country after noon a week today”, Sherlock said coldly, “or should you return for any reason, then my man will begin his work. Your son will be the first to face justice and will be dispatched to those shades where he rightly belongs. You will follow seven days later, an associate of yours six days after that, then five days.... I am sure that you can see the arithmetical series on which he works. If I were you sir, I would start packing.”

He led me away but I kept an eye on the man behind us before he seemed to snap out of whatever trance he was in and hurry off.

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I had hoped that we would be quickly departing the area just in case Mr. Kerry or his fellow criminals did try something, but Sherlock wanted to make sure that Mr. Douglas was in good enough health before we left. The fellow expressed a wish to quit England and go to the United States, and to my surprise (and very evidently to Sherlock's) Mr. Hallam said that he would e going with him. Sherlock, showing great generosity even for him, left Mr. Douglas enough money for some good clothes, the whole trip and his card to help him set himself up in a new life across the wide blue seas.

I still felt that there was something else than Sherlock had not told me about all this, though.

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About a week later I noticed a small article on the inside pages of the 'Times'. I read it with no little amount of satisfaction and allowed myself a smile, even if it did involve a man's death. Someone had apparently shot and killed a Lance-Corporal Jonathan Kerry on his way to be fitted out for a new suit to mark his forthcoming promotion. His father had as a result claimed he had had enough of England, saying that it was too dangerous and that he and some friends were quitting for the Continent. Immediately.

In totally unrelated news a chief-inspector in the same county, Nottinghamshire, had come into an inheritance in South Africa that required his immediate departure from these shores. What an _amazing_ coincidence!

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Postscriptum: Sherlock did not forget to keep an eye on the other two men in this case. Fortunately for them the county constabulary did not make any unwise moves against Sergeant Fleming, who was promoted to inspector some years later. Sherlock also arranged for Mr. Balliston to return to his native Ireland whence some years later he emigrated to New Brunswick, Canada. There he married and founded a most successful army supplies business.

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_Notes:_  
_† A quote from the Roman poet Juvenal (Decimus Junius Juvenalis) who lived around the late first and early second centuries AD. He was actually referencing the problems of a husband relying on his friends to let him know if his wife was being unfaithful, saying that a smart wife would first deal with the friends ('the guards') before straying. Juvenal gave us two other common modern phrases: 'mens sana in corpore sano' (a sound mind in a sound body) and 'panem et circenses' (bread and circuses, in that only food and entertainment are needed to keep the common people from revolting)._

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	19. Interlude: Brothers!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1888\. A shock – and not the last one.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

It was at times like this that I was grateful for my ability to cloak my emotions, for the shock of seeing my twin in that Nottinghamshire wood, let alone finding the lost Mr. James Douglas with him – well! Thankfully the latter surprised John as well and I could only hope that if he had detected anything amiss with me, he would have put it down to our stumbling across our quarry.

After our dealings with the unpleasant Mr. Kerry who was one of those foul fellows that make one want to have a bath afterwards to somehow 'wash him off', we stayed in the area only to ensure that all was well for those innocents like Private Balliston and Sergeant Fleming. My twin took me for a walk in the forest one day while Watson was looking round the village church, and it was then that he sprang it on me.

I stared at him in shock.

“You are going to America?” I said incredulously.

“Jimmy can find happiness there, with my help”, he said. “Besides, you will need me there.”

“Why?” I challenged.

As I might have known, he shook his head at me.

“You are approaching some of the most difficult years in your illustrious career, brother”, he said. “Your next major case will be horrible, and in the coming years you will face up against one of the great evil masterminds of our age. The time will come when you and your friend leave England once more, and you will come to me. Once I have Jimmy settled in North Carolina I am headed west for Nebraska, where I have my eye on a property near the town of Lincoln. It is called 'Reichenbach'.”

I remembered his words back in Switzerland, that the name of those falls where John had suffered so would reappear once again in our lives. I shuddered.

“Yes”, he said. “Your own dark vale is a long one as is his, but you will both emerge from it. Less than six years from now, you will be.....”

He stopped. I glared at him.

“I _hate_ having so many brothers!” I snapped.

“I know!” he beamed.

It really was incredibly annoying when someone was so smug. I said as much to John later; I thought that he nodded a shade too fervently for some reason.

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	20. Case 148: The Adventure Of The Deceiving Dundases

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1888\. John's hopes for his overworked friend to have some rest come crashing down when Sherlock gets a dreadful shock, as a face from his past resurfaces. Once again past deeds have present (and future) consequences, but the truth will out – or will it?

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

The long hot summer of that year saw no let-up in Sherlock's workload and increasingly I would look up from my paper to find that he had fallen asleep in his chair again. I considered trying to persuade him to take another holiday even if it meant my taking time off from an increasingly busy surgery. A generous bequest had enabled us to expand into an adjoining house in Bloomsbury and take on another full-time doctor, but the surge in demand for our services had more than matched our growth and I myself was often left tired and exhausted by day's end. That and my literary efforts meant that I was in little better shape than my friend, if truth be told. 

It was at this relatively low point in both our lives that Sherlock received a terrible blow, arising out of our next major case. Indeed the deeply personal nature of what transpired was the primary reason as to why this was not included amongst my original stories. Yet in the way that the Lord has in these matters, some good did eventually come out of it even though it was many years later.

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It was the end of August and a whole week had gone by with no major new cases. I had been getting hopeful that things might be turning the corner so when Sherlock's irritating brother Randall turned up at 221B I groaned inwardly, and not just because for some reason one could not order man-traps through the general post which was just unfair in this day and age. The lounge-lizard had called two days prior and I had feared the worst, but nothing had seemingly come of that visit and I had (perhaps unwisely) begun to relax. I was also concerned as our visitor seemed unusually ruffled, and anything which would cause an unmitigated nuisance as powerful as him to look out of sorts could not be good.

“It is this damn Children’s Charter†”, he grumbled pulling himself closer to the fire. After a brief week of summery warmth during our Nottinghamshire adventure the sodden weather of the year had resumed, and I had been concerned lest the unseasonably damp weather of the past week add to my friend's problems with a cold or flu. Fortunately there was no sign of that, at least.

“I thought that you disapproved of the Salisbury government”, Sherlock said mildly, sipping his coffee. His brother scowled at him.

“I disapprove of all politicians!” he said loftily. “But as a servant of the Crown it is my sovereign duty to uphold governments of all hues, Liberal or Conservative, or at least to prevent them from doing too much damage while in office. This damn law is making that bloody difficult!”

“I hardly think that you have come here today to consult me on constitutional matters, brother”, Sherlock said pointedly. “There is more to it than that.”

His brother seemed to hesitate, and a cold feeling ran down my spine. 

“The case has caused a falling-out between one of the government ministers and his good lady wife”, he said, clearly picking his words carefully. “Their marriage was coming apart as it was but this has been the straw that has broken the camel's back. That in turn has split the Cabinet; three of the other members' wives are publicly supporting the lady and one is sister to a newspaper owner. If she sues for divorce and he contests it as I fully expect him to do, the case would be political dynamite!”

My friend stared at him; he too had picked up on his brother's nervousness. I wondered as to why would the lounge-lizard be calling Sherlock in on what seemed like a divorce case, albeit a high-profile one?

“I still do not see where I fit in”, my friend said warily.

“I asked the lady to wait outside, hoping that you might speak with her”, his brother said.

My bad feeling increased by several notches. I was I thought a fairly decent judge of human nature and the pest was not just nervous, he was _terrified_. But why? What could there be about a divorce that would cause such a reaction?

“Then kindly show her in”, Sherlock said, rising to his feet. 

I rose too. Randall went and pressed the bell, and what seemed like an age later Mrs. Hudson opened the door and announced 'Lady Amelia Dundas'. An attractive lady of about thirty-five years of age wearing an expensive cream dress walked into the room, looking I thought almost as uneasy as our other visitor.

I will never forget what happened next. Sherlock took one astonished look at the new arrival then strode quickly across the room and slapped his brother hard on the face (a certain unsubtle landlady really did not need to give a double thumbs-up at that moment, no matter how much I concurred with her sentiments!). Mr. Randall Holmes did not even try to defend himself as the sound echoed around the room.

“You bastard!” Sherlock yelled at him before turning and marching to his room. We heard the sound of the key being turned, then silence. I stared between our two guests in complete confusion. 

“Indeed”, Mr. Randall Holmes said, rubbing his reddened face (he must surely have heard the chuckling from a certain unsubtle landlady as she had gone down the stairs as it had been loud enough to come through the door that she had shut behind her; but fortunately I did n it hear it as I was thinking of a certain pistol). “That went about as well as I expected.”

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“Sherlock?” I called tentatively.

It was about fifteen minutes later and I was standing at the door to his room. His pest of a brother had taken Lady Dundas to a nearby restaurant while Mrs. Hudson had retreated to her own rooms, I would have wagered to have a totally non-celebratory large gin. We were alone.

“They have gone”, I called. “It is just me here.”

There was the sound of the door being unlocked. Sherlock duly emerged and it was patently obvious that he had been crying. My dearest friend, the man I loved more than life itself, had been crying. I did not hesitate but held out my arms and he fell into them, the sobbing breaking out anew.

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“I suppose that you would like an explanation.”

I had never thought that I would use the comparison but my friend looked as broken as poor Jimmy Douglas had been in that woodland hovel outside Gotham a short time back. It struck me forcibly that Sherlock needed me to support him now, through whatever trials and tribulations the arrival of that lady had engendered. I reached across the table and gently placed a hand on his.

“Whenever you are ready and whatever you have to tell me, I will listen”, I said with a calmness that I did definitely not feel. “I will not judge you, my friend. You mean too much to be for me even to think of doing that.”

He shook and stared down at where our hands were resting. I gently rubbed the ring on his finger and he sniffed mournfully.

“It is an unedifying tale”, he sniffed. “I am afraid that you will think so much less of me as a man when you know all. I... I value your opinion above all else.”

“Everyone has skeletons in their cupboards”, I said firmly, thinking wryly of my own disreputable grandfather. “The measure of a true friend is one who stands by you no matter what. I will always be at your side, Sherlock.”

I thought for one horrible moment that I was about to set him off again, but he drew a ragged breath and shuddered anew.

“The woman you saw earlier – before I met you in Oxford, she and I... we were lovers.”

I froze in shock before I saw the hurt in those impossibly blue eyes of his. He needed me now more than ever. I forced out a reassuring smile and gripped his hand firmly. I would see him through this. I had to.

“Tell me”, I said. “Tell me everything.”

He took another ragged breath. He was visibly shaking now.

“It happened in 'Seventy-Three, the summer break the year before you came to Bargate”, he began, and I could see how upset this was making him. “I was but eighteen years of age, an awkward teenager all elbows and poor clothing choices – do not say it; no change there! That was when I met and fell in love with a beautiful red-headed girl of the same age whose family had just moved into our area. Ours was a whirlwind romance and I felt that I had no other purpose in life than to be man and wife with the beautiful Miss Amelia Everett.”

I stared at him, torn between shock and pity. His eyes were bright with what I suspected were tears for what might have been. He might have had the Victorian Dream with that lady; a wife, a home, children. Yet for some reason, it had not happened. 

He swallowed hard before continuing.

“Her father was a fierce xenophobe”, he said, “and when he found out that a boy of Irish extraction was seeing his daughter he demanded that it stop. I went back to Bargate and was only home for the holidays so it was not until the following summer, when her father was temporarily away on business, that I had any time to pursue the relationship. We only met away from her house and one day we.... we....”

He broke off. He did not need to finish that sentence; I could guess full well what he and that dratted woman had done.

“Someone must have talked, for her father came to suspect almost immediately”, he said sadly. “I was forbidden from ever seeing her again, and she was dispatched to spend time with some family relatives in South Africa. I had hoped to win him round, but when I returned for the Christmas break she was still Abroad. Although by then it was too late.”

I was puzzled.

“Too late for what?” I asked. He looked at me curiously.

“I had met you”, he said softly. “Even during those short weeks and in that long, lonely year before I met you again at Cambridge, I knew. I was yours and that I would never want another.”

Passing aliens could have spotted my blush. From the next galaxy.

“I did try to get Randall to find her for me”, he sighed, “but only because I was worried about her. He 'claimed' that he could not. I only realized later that he was lying to protect her, yet now he brings her here?”

“Protect her?” I said scornfully. _“From what?_ You are far too much of a gentleman to ever behave the way some of our so-called ‘high society’ handle themselves in this day and age!”

He smiled at my vehemence.

“You think too highly of me, my friend”, he said tiredly.

“I know you”, I said defensively, “and besides, the doctor is always right!”

He chuckled at that.

“You probably know more about the woman that could have become Mrs. Sherlock Holmes than I do”, he said with a sigh. “From all those society pages that you never read.”

I pouted in mock offence and he chuckled again. It was so good to hear that sound.

“She is as you know married to Lord Edgar Dundas, the government minister who sits in the Lords”, I said. “They……”

Oh Lord above! Please; an apocalypse, an aerolite, a heart-attack, the roof falling on me.... why did this have to be yet another time that my mouth was steaming out of the station before my brain had managed to get up the concourse steps?

 _“John”_ , he said warily, _“what do you know?”_

I hesitated, but I had talked myself into this mess and there was no way out other than to cause him even more pain. I braced myself.

“He married her at the start of 'Eighty”, I said slowly, wishing that science had progressed enough for me to be miraculously transported anywhere else in the globe just now. Or about forty seconds back in time. “At the time the society pages remarked that they had had a brief relationship in their teenage years….”

I stopped, so not wanting to continue. His face had gone dark.

“Go on”, he said heavily. 

“Her father had opposed his suit as he had yours but, unknown to him, Lord Dundas too had interests in South Africa”, I said. “His own father was not supportive either and had arranged for him to marry a local girl there. He had two sons with his wife, George and Philip. She died giving birth to the latter but....”

I stared at him pleadingly. Damnation, could not the great detective work this one out for himself?

“The society pages – you know what they are like – noticed that his former lady-friend had also been in South Africa at the time”, I said. “There was the subtlest hint – no evidence of course – that young George might have been Miss Everett's son from their brief time together at the end of 'Seventy-Four.”

This was hellish. How could I ask him the obvious question which was, ‘did you….?’ But by the way in which his face suddenly went white I had my answer. Possibly, just possibly, Sherlock had had a son who had been passed off as being that of another man. And I was about to make things even worse. Me and my big mouth.

“George Dundas died”, I managed. “Scarlet fever when he was five, in 'Eighty. It was just days after his.... after Lord Dundas's second marriage.”

Sherlock said nothing and we sat there for some considerable time, my hand holding his.

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“I have to see her.”

It was the following day and Mr. Randall Holmes had not seen fit to show his face around Baker Street, which was the one good thing to have come out of this sorry mess. Sherlock was sat huddled beneath a weight of blankets in his favourite fireside chair, looking much older than his thirty-three years. I silently wept for him but I knew that I had to remain strong. 

“Would you like me to ask for her to come here?” I offered. I did not know whether to continue and suggest that I could either leave or stay as he wished, but he looked pleadingly at me before answering. I knew.

“Yes please, John”, he said quietly. 

I reached for the notepad to send a telegram. It was a little warmer today but Sherlock looked frozen in his own personal winter.

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This case was going to break one or both of us, I thought to myself as we waited for the arrival of Lady Dundas, Sherlock’s.... lover of years ago. Possibly even the mother of his son. The woman who, despite all this, had requested his help in sorting out a possible divorce. I had offered again to leave them alone but the utterly heartbreaking look that he had given me had made it patently clear that he needed me there. This was awful!

Lady Dundas arrived on time and Mrs. Hudson herself showed her up, clearly brimming with curiosity but too well-bred to show it. Our visitor took a seat; she seemed as nervous as us both.

“Hullo, Sherlock”, she said nervously. I immediately bristled at her use of his Christian name. 

“Good afternoon, Lady Dundas”, Sherlock said, only a slight tremor in his voice betraying his emotion. “I understand that you are requesting my help in securing a divorce from your husband?”

She looked across at him, clearly understanding the unspoken message from the coldness in his voice.

“I am still Amelia Everett under all this finery”, she said quietly.

“But I am no longer a teenage boy”, Sherlock said bitterly, “who was thrown over for something better!”

She hung her head. There was a silence that was several degrees beyond awkward.

“I suppose that I deserved that”, she admitted. “But before we start there is something that you should know.”

I held my breath. This was surely about her son.

It was. She opened her reticule and extracted a folder piece of paper.

“George was born in August of 'Seventy-Five”, she said, handing it to him. “This is a official copy of his birth certificate.”

I sighed inwardly in relief. Sherlock and this pestilential female had..... had in the summer of 'Seventy-Four, which meant that barring an elephantine pregnancy the boy could not have been his. Judging from the slight tremor in his shoulders he had worked it out too.”

“I see”, he said quietly, returning the document. “Thank you for telling me that. Pray continue as to how Doctor Watson and I may be of service.”

I noted that he put my name first. Our visitor nodded, clearly getting the unspoken message. The tension in the air seemed to ease a little.

“I first met Edgar in September not long after... you had gone back to Oxford”, she said, blushing deeply. “My father was initially opposed to the relationship - he had a fierce hatred of anyone not English.”

“I well remember!” Sherlock said bitterly. She blushed again.

“Edgar is as you know one-quarter Boer and half-Scottish, so my father hated him almost as much as he hated you”, she said. “My father as you know sent me to South Africa to get me away from you and him; he was unaware of Edgar's Boer ancestry and that he was able to arrange a trip there himself. That November we..... er....”

She trailed off, clearly embarrassed.

“I assure you Lady Dundas that, unusual although it is, there are some details that I do _not_ wish to know”, Sherlock said coldly. “You had the child, so your actions on the Dark Continent are blindingly obvious. Why did not you and this... _personage_ marry as soon as possible?”

“Edgar's father wished him to marry a local girl who... she was very rich but what they call simple”, she said. “It was all arranged in January, then in February I discovered discovered my pregnancy. Of course my father was furious; as usual Arrangements were made and George was taken away from me the minute he was born. I... I was not even allowed to hold him.”

She took a ragged breath, clearly struggling to hold it together. I should have felt sorry for her, but she had made her bed and had to lie in it. Literally in this case.

“I heard nothing until he died of scarlet fever just after his fifth birthday in 'Eighty”, she went on. “I would not have known that had not a servant of the family who knew of the story informed me of his death by telegram.”

“I am sorry for your loss”, Sherlock said flatly. “Kindly explain how you did come to marry your current husband.”

“My father died only weeks before poor George”, she said. “Edgar's wife died in childbirth delivering his other son Philip at the end of 'Eighty and he had returned to England, as had I. He had also taken up his seat in the House of Lords although he had not attained his current high position in government. He sent to see if I might still accept his suit, and in light of what happened soon after I did agree to marry him.”

I was puzzled, but of course Sherlock knew.

“The second Married Women’s Property Act”, he said. “It enabled you to keep control of your own finances.”

“Indeed”, she said. “That is the issue at hand. As I am sure you are aware, there has been friction between Edgar and myself over his totally unjustifiable opposition to the Children's Charter. But there is more. Earlier this year you may remember that there was a minor stock market panic, and as a result I decided to spend some time reviewing my investments. I found to my horror that my husband has been secretly moving them from my name to his and that I was virtually destitute!”

“That is illegal”, I said. “You can sue him for that.”

“I doubt that I could even afford a lawyer”, she said bitterly. “He has been very cunning and would doubtless claim that I agreed to it at the time. I am sure that some of the papers he asked me to sign were instrumental in his deception. Besides, I wish for obvious reasons to be the one to divorce him and that is difficult enough as it is.”

“Unfairly the onus is still on the wife to actually prove either unfaithfulness or cruelty on the husband’s behalf”, Sherlock said. “An obliging husband may provide a 'paper claim' to be having an affair but we are to presume that that would not apply in your case, and with his resources his lawyer would no doubt seek to drag out the case in an attempt to force you to withdraw. I would have thought that the offices of my brother Randall would have been more efficient in pursuing your aims.”

 _Plus she could have kept her wretched besom out of Sherlock's life and avoided all this_ , I thought bitterly. The woman blushed again.

“I asked for your help”, she said sounding nervous. “I know that I treated you very badly, Sherlock, but for those brief few months we were so happy. For the sake of what might have been, please help me!”

Of course he was going to help her, because he was that sort of person. She had treated him foully, not even trying to maintain contact with him but he was far too soft a touch to refuse a genuine plea for help. Even though he deserved so much better than her. Well now he had it!

“I will help you”, my friend said eventually.

“Thank you, Sherlock”, she smiled.

“But”, he said his voice suddenly harsh, “all future communication will be via letter and telegram until the case is fully resolved. I cannot forgive you for what you did to me back then Amelia; not now, not ever. You were my first true love, and you broke my heart.”

His voice broke as he finished and he rose slowly to his feet, then walked to his bedroom and quietly shut the door. She stared unhappily after him then sighed and bade me farewell.

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I wondered if my friend would wish to sleep alone that night, but when I put my head around his door to inquire he looked at me so forlornly that I nearly cried myself. I quickly got into my night-clothes and wrapped myself around him but we slept little, and I had the horrible experience of holding someone who was quietly sobbing for most of the night.

We were both in poor shape the following day although the look of undying love that I received when I forked over all my bacon (I was sure that Mrs. Hudson had doubled our normal rations that day) was a rare happier moment. My friend was clearly determined not to discuss the emotional events of the previous day and I heartily concurred with that decision. I felt as if I had had my full quota of those for this and the next decade!

“I need to dispatch a lot of telegrams and letters today”, he said as we sat at the breakfast table (I had long finished but had brought my coffee back to the table to sit with him). “I have several possible lines of inquiry and there will likely be more once I have read Randall’s file on Lord Dundas.”

“Are you going to interview him?” I asked.

“No.”

That did surprise me and I wondered instinctively if Sherlock was allowing his feelings for an old flame to edge him into taking sides. He obviously read my thoughts, and sighed.

“You consider that my judgement is suspect because of my past relationship with Lady Dundas”, he said.

“I would wager my life on your judgement”, I said hotly. “However, I do not see what _he_ gains by refusing to provide his wife with a divorce. Even if he prevents her from going to court the publicity will be horrible, and I doubt that the government will be pleased with him for that. It seems an unwise risk for someone seeking promotion, as he so evidently is.”

“He gains her money, at least in the short term until things are sorted out”, Sherlock said. “Also, thank you.”

“What for?” I asked, puzzled.

“Because everyone should have a friend who is prepared to speak truth to them”, he said. “I _will_ institute some inquiries into Lord Dundas.”

I smiled at him. Unfortunately my good intentions were to once again backfire. Horribly in this instance.

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Proving that troubles tend to come in bulk deliveries, I had to quit Sherlock for a time at this most inopportune moment. My brother Stevie had planned to marry his fiancée Miss Henrietta Leigh that May and her uncle Horace who was a reverend was supposed to have conducted the service, only for him and two members of her family to all come down in the same gastroenteritis outbreak that had affected Sherlock earlier that year. The result was that the wedding had had to be postponed until they had fully recovered. I did not want to go, leaving my friend at this terrible time, but I had no choice.

I was more than a little shocked when I arrived to find that the bride-to-be was pregnant and that I would soon become an uncle, but even that did little to avert my mind from my worries over my friend and I took the earliest train back on the final Sunday that I could, pleading a need to catch up with my writings. I had a horrible feeling that they knew all too well the real reasons behind my distractedness but fortunately they refrained from remarking on it. Bearing in mind the many times that I had teased my little brother while growing up, I owed him for that.

Arriving back at Baker Street did not alleviate my worries at all as Mrs. Hudson immediately drew me aside and informed me that Sherlock had barely touched his meals during my absence. I quickly hatched a plan and agreed it with our landlady before going upstairs. When I saw how tired Sherlock looked I felt even more guilty at having abandoned him at a time like this.

It had been mid-afternoon when I returned and a few hours later Mrs. Hudson sent up our dinner. Sherlock did not even look up from his writing-desk when the maid entered but once the food had been set out and she had gone, I went and stood by him.

“Come”, I said. “Dinner is ready.”

“I am not hungry”, he muttered, not even looking up.

Fortunately he had recently acquired one of those new swivel chairs so I was able to spin him round to face me, much to his evident surprise. I placed a hand on each arm-rest and this time it was I invading his personal space.

“This is your doctor speaking”, I said firmly. “And your friend. You need to take better care of yourself, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. That is going to start with you eating a full meal every evening, without fail. You and I are going to dine at the same time seven days a week, come hell or high water!”

He stared at me in confusion before nodding and getting to his feet. I knew that I had no real way of enforcing my proscription; he was taller and a better fighter than me, and in a straight fight I would never stand a chance. He walked to the table and sat down then lifted one of the covered dishes.

“Bacon for tea?” he asked, clearly surprised.

“I asked Mrs. Hudson to prepare something that I thought you would like”, I said. I refrained from adding that I did not like the way he preferred his bacon, so crispy that you could build a toy house out of it. He looked at me curiously then smiled slightly. I would do anything for one of those smiles. 

Yes, that included handing over all my own bacon!

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There was a tense atmosphere in the house all the following week as I watched my friend carefully for further signs of tiredness or ill-health, and he was more than a little uneasy at being watched. I noted quickly that he was not taking on any new cases (except for a small matter concerning one of Mrs. Harrison's tenants at 221A, which he quickly solved), although he did finish his remaining current cases. His brother's file on Lord Dundas had arrived and he had spent many hours poring over it, though if he had found anything of interest he did not tell me. I would have felt excluded from the case except for the other change that had happened after my return.

During my 'long weekends' of writing I had fallen into the habit of taking a daily walk, because much as I loved our rooms in Baker Street a change of air seemed to help me think more clearly. Sherlock was also often out and about on one matter or another and he also liked to read in his bedroom, so we did not usually see much of each other on these days apart from our evening meal routine. However, after my return from seeing Stevie, things seemed to change. Sherlock asked if he could accompany me on my daily walk and seemed to almost expect me to decline, which I would never have done. He was apologetic about using these excursions to do his own tasks of sending and receiving letters and telegrams, but I told him I did not mind where we went together. He also made far fewer trips out on his own preferring to dispatch boys to the post and telegraph offices if he needed to send or reply to communications, and rarely went into his own room to read, preferring his fireside chair. Possibly the reappearance of his first love had unsettled him somewhat as he seemed to need my presence for as much as was possible.

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“I am expecting Lady Dundas today.”

It was two weeks after that fateful visit. I was surprised at his announcement as I had thought (hoped) that he would not be seeing the dratted woman ever again. 

“Certain discoveries mean that it is necessary for me to speak to her in person”, he sighed. “Before you say it, I too wish that it could be avoided.”

Obviously he could still read my thoughts so no change there, then. For once that actually made me happy.

“But you always do the right thing”, I smiled. “Ever dependable, my Sherlock.”

He smiled across at me.

“I do not deserve you, John”, he sighed. “I drag you everywhere, I expose you to untold dangers, I lied to you over your own family, I.... I.....”

He stuttered to a halt.

“You are my friend”, I said simply. “I would not give that up for all the tea in China!”

I would do anything for this man. Even endure a Moment like this!

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Shortly after said Moment, Lady Dundas was announced. She took a seat by the fire and, unusually, Sherlock remained standing. I did not glare evilly at her, but it was close.

“I do not wish to detain you any longer than is absolutely necessary, Lady Dundas”, Sherlock said coolly, “but I have one or two important things to tell you.”

“Is it good news?” she asked fearfully.

“My research has revealed that it will not be possible for you to obtain a divorce from your husband”, he said flatly.

Her face fell.

“You think that I will lose in court”, she said dully.

“No”, he said. “You are not legally married.”

She stared at him in confusion.

“I do not understand.”

“This case has been all about lies”, he said sounding unusually bitter. “One in particular concerns the first Lady Dundas.”

“She died giving birth to his son Philip”, Lady Dundas said.

“She did not”, Sherlock said firmly. “Lord Dundas considered you a much more attractive option when it came to social and political advancement, so he decided to abandon his first wife once she had provided him with another son, and to marry you. His first wife was as you said somewhat simple-minded; the records show that her family accepted a generous pay-off on her behalf that included her retaining her original inheritance. She did not die but lived a further three years after her husband's departure, so was alive at the time of your marriage to Lord Dundas – a marriage that was therefore bigamous as his first union had never been dissolved.”

“Why did he not just divorce his first wife?” I asked.

“There is a law in the Cape Colony that prevents divorce from a wife who is pregnant or has a young son”, he explained. “Lord Dundas, presumably because he was getting on in years, was not minded to wait the five years that he was obliged to. His union with you is as I said bigamous and therefore unlawful. I am sure that he will choose to grant you an uncontested divorce once he knows that there is proof of his shameful behaviour, as were this to come out his political career would be finished.”

She beamed.

“That is _wonderful_ news!” she smiled. “Thank you, Sherlock.”

I felt a renewed sense of foreboding. My friend's face had acquired that horrible shuttered look again, the one he only donned when he was masking some strong emotion.

“I also had cause to speak with Mr. Silas Rosenstern.”

The forger of documents, I remembered. Evidently the name struck a chord with our guest who drew back from Sherlock as if burned. His blue eyes were cold as ice.

“I know all”, he said sharply. “I know how you used one of the best forgers of official documents in London, and that you had to show Mr. Rosenstern the real birth certificate from South Africa before he would start work on the forgeries that you paid so dearly for. It is your ill-luck that I not only use that gentleman's services myself from time to time but that I performed a small service for him some years back. When I asked him if he had had any dealings with you, he felt compelled to tell me all.”

She put her head in her hands and wept, but Sherlock remained unmoved.

“George Dundas was born at the start of June of 'Seventy-Five”, he said bitterly. “He was not registered as premature, and by your own admission you and you husband did not... until November of the previous year, which means that he was conceived while you were.... seeing me. George was _my_ son and you kept him from me. My son, my own flesh and blood, died without my ever knowing him, without my ever being able to hold him in my arms and tell him how much I loved him. For that I will _never_ forgive you as long as I live!”

She continued to weep but he did not move to comfort her. When he spoke again his voice was if anything even colder.

“This case is concluded”, he said. “I will forward you a bill for services rendered. We shall not meet again. Good day, madam.”

He walked quietly away to his room and closed the door behind him. Our visitor stood, looked once at me then walked slowly to the door and left. I stared after her then at the door on the other side of the room. Feeling in my pocket for what I knew was there, I walked across and knocked before entering.

“Some birthday!” he said bitterly. “A son I never knew and never will know.”

“At least you know the truth”, I said consolingly. “I did get you a small present, Sherlock. I don't suppose there will be a good time so you had better have it now.”

I handed him the small box which thankfully I had had the foresight to get wrapped at the store (my own efforts always made it look as if it had repeatedly fallen out of a mail-bag!). He smiled at me, and unwrapped it, lifting the lid off the box. 

“A blue tie”, he smiled. “Thank you. I shall wear it soon.”

I smiled sheepishly.

“Look closer”, I urged.

He looked at me in surprise, then took the tie over to the huge window. Looking closely at the blue weave he could now make out the message in it.

“'My one true love'”, he said, his voice clearly taut with emotion. “John?”

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“Hold me!”

I did not hesitate but opened my arms into which he fell weeping, sobbing out his thanks as we stood there in the gathering gloom. Two men who were just good friends. 

Not for the first time, I wondered at that thought.

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Postscriptum: Sherlock would indeed never see Lady Amelia Dundas again, and I felt a bitter sense of satisfaction that her almost equally wretched now ex-husband saw his political career ruined by the divorce. But incredibly after all my poor friend had been out through, there was one more thing that was yet to emerge from this terrible _imbroglio_ \- and when it did some two decades later, his world would change in a way that even he could never have foreseen.

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_Notes:_   
_† Enacted the year after this story is set as the Prevention of Cruelty to, and Protection of, Children Act. It allowed state intervention to prevent mistreatment of minors and tightened laws on their employment._

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	21. Case 149: The Adventure Of Mr. Etherege's Mistake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1888\. Sherlock has to deal with a major criminal organization with a most unusual leader. Someone who is prepared to shoot to kill.....

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

This case began just after Sherlock's regrettably memorable thirty-fourth birthday in late September of 'Eighty-Eight and there was little indication at the time that it would drag on for two months, nor that it would come close to taking from me my dear friend who was still reeling from the shocking revelations from the Dundas Case (and, I would only later learn, also from our Gotham adventure prior to that). Ironically I remember once again hoping for a case of sufficient interest to take his mind off all his recent travails. 

I really should have remembered that old adage about being careful what you wish for – _because you may well get it!_

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“John”, Sherlock called from his position by the window, “what do you make of this?”

It was one week after the 'solution' to the Lady Dundas Case during which I had grown increasingly worried over my friend's health, both physical and mental. He had become... I do not like to use the word 'clingy', but as I noted in our last case together he became uneasy if we were apart for any length of time (not of course that I minded that but I did not consider it a good thing as I could obviously not be with him all the time). Sometimes I would look up from my writings at the table to see him staring pensively at me almost as if he was on the point of saying something but had decided not to. Or worse, I would look up and see him staring morosely into the fire. Sometimes in the morning he would cling almost desperately to me even if I had to go into the surgery that day. I would re-assure him that I would be back in the evening but I still did not like leaving him. All I could do was 'chance to call in' at Baker Street if I had a client anywhere in the area, and some of those times I was intercepted by Mrs. Hudson who warned me that Sherlock was resting again (I would always slip a note under the door to let him know that I had called). It was all just horrible.

My friend and colleague Peter Greenwood to whom I had confided some of my concerns had quite cleverly likened the situation to an engine that was not being worked correctly. He showed me a recent study into the human mind, in which it was said that those with more powerful brains (like of course Sherlock) needed a higher degree of maintenance, hence things which might cause lesser people a mild annoyance could 'gum up the works'. I did not like the analogy but I could see the logic behind it; Sherlock needed some case that was challenging but would not tax him on an emotional level, so that he could get back to normal.

I little knew that morning just how abnormal our lives were about to become.

“A lady has walked up and down this road six times in the past fifteen minutes”, my friend observed, dragging me out of my musings. “On the last occasion she proceeded all the way to Mr. Abrahams's jewellery-shop, yet she came back.”

“Possibly a client?” I suggested.

“We shall soon know”, he said. “Mrs. Hudson had spotted her dithering in front of 221B which means that whether she wills it or no, the lady will soon be in our humble presence.”

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Sure enough some five minutes later Mrs. Hudson announced ‘Mrs. Imelda Etherege’. The lady in question was about forty years of age and small in stature, though the fact she was clearly hunched up with nerves did not help. She was such a mess that there was not even a simper at my friend, which was a rare thing indeed. I half-expected her to bolt for the door once Mrs. Hudson was safely gone, that was until Sherlock spoke.

“You are here to request my services, madam?”

He guided her to the fireside chair opposite his own and poured her a small sherry. Her eyes widened.

“You clearly need this”, Sherlock said gently. “Courage, madam. If I can help you, I will.”

“I don’t know if you can!” she blurted out. “It’s Eddie…. my husband. They’re going to hang him!”

“Why?” Sherlock asked.

“Because of the robbery”, she said, still clearly nervous. “I don’t even know what I’m doing here! I can never afford a private detective. I must….”

Sherlock shot out an arm and grasped her hand.

“Madam!” 

His voice was gentle but firm. I had often marvelled at how the female population seemed to want to either mother Sherlock or marry him, but this was another side to him. He was radiating re-assurance and it seemed to calm our visitor down (though the second sherry that I poured her probably helped too). 

“Mrs. Etherege”, Sherlock said, “I wish for you to be honest with me. You are going to relax, marshal your thoughts and then tell me about the matter that has brought you here today. Once I have all the facts I will then tell you if I can be of assistance.”

She nodded, swallowed once or twice and seemed to relax just a little.

“Thanks”, she said. “The police are convinced Eddie is guilty – most of them, anyway but that nice Inspector LeStrade said I should approach you because if anyone can find out the truth, you can.”

“I shall do my best”, Sherlock promised. “Please tell us both how this matter started. Do not worry about the doctor; his notes are invaluable – when I can read them!”

I snorted and would have huffed as well had it done any good. But I knew from his slight smile that he had not really meant it.

“Eddie worked for the Leviathan Bank, as a teller and clerk”, she began. 

“Stop!”

She looked at Sherlock in surprise and he shook an admonitory finger at her.

“If I am to help you Mrs. Etherege, I must have the _whole_ truth”, he said. “Including the time prior to recent events that your husband spent in prison.”

She gaped. 

“How did you know that?” she demanded. 

“Your hands.”

She stared down in confusion.

“In addition to your wedding-ring you have a faint ring-band on your finger”, Sherlock said. “The braided markings indicate that you have been wearing the promise-ring of the Lazarus Society, which promotes the interests of reformed criminals. You took it off before coming here today but the marking is quite distinct.”

She reddened at having been caught out.

“Before we met, Eddie did time for a gang robbery in Soho”, she admitted. “Two and a half years and he was only roped in at the last minute, poor sod. But he’s been straight ever since he met me.”

 _Has he really?_ I wondered but did not say. Sherlock shot me a look, which would normally have been annoying but was for once reassuring. At least that was still working.

“The manager at his branch in Holborn, Mr. Chetwynd, he's got a brother who did time”, our guest said, “so he was open to taking Eddie on ‘on trial’ so to speak. He’d been there over two years and they were pleased with his work, so they said. Until three weeks ago.”

“What happened then?” Sherlock asked.

“They were about to open up a new branch in St. Paul’s”, she said, “their third one along with Eddie's place and one in Westminster. That meant a lot of money being moved from the two existing branches to the new one. Eddie was one of the few people they told because his desk is right by the strong-room entrance.”

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at that detail.

“He was told on Friday the eighteenth; I remember it as it was the day before my sister’s birthday. He went into work on Monday the twenty-first and I had a visitor at just before midday. It was Mr. Pullow, Eddie's boss and a rat - and I probably insult rats by saying that! Eddie had somehow triggered the alarm on the strong-room door and he was now locked in. The door had a timer thingy he once told me, one of those you can't open until a set time after it's been locked. Security I suppose though I don't see the point myself. So I decided to go to the bank before closing-time to see if he was free.”

“Mr. Pullow was muttering that the man had been in there for five hours with their money. A rat, like I said. I was there a half an hour until they broke through – Mr. Chetwynd kindly let me stay – and when they finally did….”

She stopped. We stared at her expectantly. 

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” Sherlock asked. I was surprised too.

“No money, no Eddie – nothing! Someone had dug a great big hole through from the basement next door.”

Sherlock frowned.

“Would it not take time to dig a tunnel?” I wondered. My friend shook his head.

“They must have weakened the wall from their side and then broken through when Mr. Etherege was sealed inside”, he said. “Which of course further implies insider knowledge; someone had to tell them to break through while the door in could not be opened because of the time-lock. Presumably the police believe that your husband signalled to them once he was locked in, Mrs. Etherege, and helped them take the money out.”

“They're sure Eddie was in on it”, our visitor said. “But I haven’t told you the oddest part of this whole story yet.”

“Go on”, Sherlock urged. 

“They found Eddie last week”, she said. “In Aberdeen of all places!”

We both stared at her dumbfounded.

“The Scottish Aberdeen?” I asked, wondering if there was some other place of that name that I had hitherto been unaware of. 

“Yes”, she said. “He had no memory of the robbery or anything. In fact, when they finally let me see him once he was back here he thought we were still dating!”

“Perhaps you should be grateful that he remembered you at all”, Sherlock said. “Memory loss is unpredictable at the best of times, although having said that people only rarely regress once they have recovered their wits and they sometimes remember a lot more. The Leviathan Bank’s Holborn branch is in Southampton Place if I remember correctly?”

“Yes sir.” 

“You and Mr. Etherege reside where, pray?”

“We've a place north of the Temple, Eighty-Four St. Audrey's Crescent. It's just close enough for Eddie to walk to work.”

“Did your husband happen to say who else at the bank knew about the transfer of money to the new branch”, Sherlock asked. “Apart from himself and the two managers, I mean?”

“Eddie said that the managers had told everyone else that there was only a small amount of extra money in the safe”, she said. “The only other person who knew was Mr. Gray, the senior clerk.”

“Your tone suggests that you do not like him much”, Sherlock offered.

“He thinks once a crim, always a crim!” she said bitterly. “He was against Eddie getting a job there; I think he fears that because he proved so reliable there's every chance he may be taken into management before him. Eddie was sure he hated him.”

Sherlock frowned.

“It is indeed a thorny problem”, he said. “Let us assume that from what we know thus far the guilty man must have been one of the other three men in the case; Mr. Gray, Mr. Chetwynd or Mr. Pullow. Yet I am to assume that all three were in the bank while efforts were being made to free your husband, so they could not have been removing the money. Hence there must be at least one accomplice, more likely a number of them for such a large task as the conveyance of all that money away would have required considerable manpower. Is it certain that the money was there _before_ your husband got locked in?”

“Mr. Chetwynd had just checked it”, she said. “The managers left for a meeting while Eddie and Mr. Gray finished checking it was the exact amount, and he then _claimed_ Eddie had dallied and shut the door once he was out of it.”

I could see why the police had suspected this lady's husband. That sounded rather weak from someone who had known about the money.

“Mrs. Etherege”, Sherlock said heavily, “I am not going to pretend that this will be easy. You have clearly had a hard life thus far and I would not delude you with false hopes. I think it is best if Inspector LeStrade gives me the full case notes to read through, and that I proceed from there. We have your address, and once when there are any developments in this case I promise that you will be informed.”

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Over the next week Sherlock worked tirelessly in investigating the three possible suspects, but to no avail. He told me early on that he did consider either that they were working together or that maybe Mr. Edred Etherege was indeed guilty to some extent and possibly coerced, but finding proof of any particular theory proved impossible. All three men had left the bank at one time or another on the day in question but all had done so in the company of at least one other staff member, and witnesses were found who confirmed that they had been where they had said they had been. It was very frustrating.

“Can it be that Mrs. Etherege's faith in her husband is misplaced?” he wondered aloud on the last day of September. He had just returned from Scotland having visited the hotel in Aberdeen where the missing Mr. Etherege had been discovered. All he had found was a bell-boy at a hotel in the principality who remembered a large and gaudily-dressed lady arriving with a particularly heavy chest around that time, which the boy had only recalled because his colleague who had helped him hoist it up to her room had quipped that it was heavy enough to contain a body. She had stayed for a week under the name of 'Mrs. Smith'.

I gazed at him across the morning paper. He looked tired and careworn, his failure to solve this case clearly weighing him down. He was refusing to take on any new cases until it was over and I was beginning to fear for his health again. Considering how happy we had been at the start of this year, it was turning out very ill indeed.

“You will sort it all out in the end”, I said with a confidence that I did not really feel. Indeed I was beginning to have the distinct sense that this case might be Sherlock's first real failure. “I have faith in you.”

“What is in the 'Times' that is causing you to frown so?” he inquired.

“More brutal murders, two women in the East End”, I said. “The third and fourth in the area of late. The killer seems to have sliced open the bodies for some reason.”

“Killers rarely have 'reason' in the way normal people understand it”, Sherlock said sagely. “I have another lead up in Cheshire but I do not know whether it will amount to anything.”

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October arrived and the continuing inclement weather seemed to reflect the moods of us both. Inspector Gregson came round to ask for Sherlock's help as regards the murders in the East End. I fully expected him to refuse but to my surprise he said that he would look into the matter. That itself concerned me as I feared that he was once more overtaxing himself.

The Cheshire lead had turned out to be a dead end but at the end of the month Sherlock arranged to travel down to the Somersetshire resort of Weston-super-Mare, as a retired Leviathan employee there had some possible information. I had planned to go with him but the daughter of one of the surgery's most important supporters had most inconsiderately decided to go into labour while visiting her lawyer at the Inns of Court and I had to let him travel alone. 

I little knew that the key to the solving the Etherege case was about to be handed to the most unlikely person. My good self.

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Mrs. Caterham's delivery was mercifully a fairly quick one, indeed almost comedic in the way the presence of a lady giving birth and very soon a screaming baby so clearly disconcerted the bewigged lawyers who were having to work around her and kept staring incredulously at the new arrival (what had they been expecting?). As so often with these things clearing up afterwards took just as long and it was mid-afternoon before I was finished. Since it was a Sunday I would normally have headed back to Baker Street but Dame Fortune caused me to remember that Mrs. Etherege had sent a note round just as Sherlock was leaving for Somersetshire. As I knew her house lay less than a mile away I decided to call in and speak to her in person. 

Eighty-four St. Audrey's Crescent was a small lodging-house although very well-kept; the garden was I thought particularly impressive. The landlady Mrs. Wall admitted me and I was shown up to Mrs. Etherege's room. She apologized for the mess (it was a lot tidier than 221B after one of Sherlock's looking for something, I thought wryly!) and I explained how things were going, trying to put as positive a spin on things as I could. I was sure that she could see through my false optimism but she did not challenge me on it, for which I was grateful.

Sherlock and I had visited her husband but once in prison whence he had been transferred as the authorities decided if they had a case to mount against him. He had been a quivering wreck of a man and it was that visit that hung in my memory as I was leaving. I stared down at the combined coat- and shoe-rack in surprise, and when Mrs. Etherege asked if anything was wrong I lied and said that I was merely distracted. Which was true enough because I most definitely did not like what I was seeing.

I returned to Baker Street arriving only minutes before a Sherlock who looked a little more hopeful. Perhaps his Somersetshire trip had yielded results after all. I decided not to tell him of my discovery until we had eaten our regular evening meal together; at least he was eating well now which was one less worry. Once we were sat by the fire with our coffees, I decided that it was time to speak.

“You have been on edge all evening”, he said cutting into my thoughts. “The birthing went well?”

“A healthy baby boy, six pounds and six ounces; he and his mother are both doing well”, I said. “No, it was what happened after that has unsettled me. I went to see Mrs. Etherege.”

He looked at me curiously. 

“And?” he prompted.

I took a deep breath.

“I think that she may be seeing another man.”

His eyebrows shot up.

“Why?” he asked. 

“Remember when we saw her husband in jail the other week?” I said.

“Yes?”

“It was stupid but the one thing that stuck with me was that he had such big feet for such a small man”, I said, feeling a little embarrassed as I spoke. “Size eight at least. Yet on the shoe-rack there was a pair of good-quality men's shoes that were at most a size six. I managed to slide my own boot next to them while she fetched me my bag so I was quite sure.”

He stared hard at me.

“I do not see why a visitor would leave their boots there”, I said plaintively. “I mean, that would suggest that they slept there. I asked the landlady Mrs. Wall if anyone had been bothering Mrs. Etherege as regards all the publicity but she said that no-one had come to the house, and her own room was across the corridor so she would have known.”

He was still staring at me. I stared back at him.

“Have I said something stupid?” I ventured eventually. 

“We have to go and see Mr. Etherege!” he said, rising rapidly to his feet.

“Can it not wait until morning?” I asked. It was after seven o' clock on a Sunday evening and I doubted that the prison guards at Newgate would be happy at receiving a visitor this late of a day, even one as famous as Sherlock. 

One look at his shining eyes and I had my answer.

“I will get my coat”, I said.

He wrote out a quick message and summoned a boy to dispatch it, then we were on our way.

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I spent the entire cab journey wondering exactly how a pair of shoes or Mrs. Etherege's possible infidelity could have solved the case for Sherlock, but to no avail. I had been right about our reception although with a few sovereigns in the right pockets we were soon admitted to the reception area. A few moments later a bedraggled Mr. Edred Etherege was pushed into the room, handcuffed and clearly afraid.

“Please take a seat, Mr. Etherege”, Sherlock said. “Warden, I would be grateful if you would remove those bracelets. I hardly think that two grown men could be endangered by this fellow.”

The warden snorted his disapproval but did as he had been asked. Mr. Etherege flexed his arms and looked at us hopefully. It was rather pitiful, I thought. Sherlock stared pointedly at the warden and with another grunt he left us alone. 

“Sir, you have been most sorely used”, Sherlock said gently. “I have two things to tell you and I wish you to remain silent until you have heard them both. Nod if you understand.”

The man looked even more scared but nodded.

“First”, Sherlock said, “I know all about 'Malleus Maleficarum'. There have always been groups and individuals who fancy themselves as crime lords, no matter how suited or not they may be to such an aspiration. You had thought to leave that world behind yet you unwittingly walked straight into its embrace, did you not?”

The man looked ready to bolt back to the safety of his cell at this point but with a small whine he nodded again. Sherlock took a notebook out of his pocket and wrote something on it then passed it over to the man who read it. This time I feared he was indeed going to pass out on us.

“The head of 'Malleus Maleficarum'”, Sherlock said calmly. “I spoke to Mr. Thaddeus Belton, a clerk who worked at the bank until last year. They tried to recruit him but he was able to retire rather than do what they asked. He guessed correctly that they would target someone else in the bank and that with your past it might well be you. But they already had you, did they not?”

The man gulped and nodded.

“I'm a dead man walking!” he moaned.

“I can arrange for you to be sent to another country, with a brand-new identity”, Sherlock said. 

“There's no escape!”

“I have already dispatched a telegram to my brother”, Sherlock said. “In one hour or less you will be released into our custody. You will be on a ship tonight and in a new country tomorrow, with a new identity and enough money to set yourself up there.”

For the first time the wretched man looked hopeful. I wondered what on earth was going on.

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We stayed at the jail until Mr. Randall Holmes had arrived – thirty minutes; the fellow moved fast – and made sure that he and Mr. Etherege had left before returning to Baker Street.

“But what about his wife?” I asked as we ascended back to our rooms. “Surely she will want to be with him even if she is unfaithful.”

“I am sure that Mrs. Etherege has _not_ been unfaithful to her husband”, he said with a knowing smile. “But in the interests of Mr. Etherege's well-being it is best that they not be together just now, especially the way gossip works in the world of crime and criminality. We shall summon her to Baker Street tomorrow morning and apprise her of developments.”

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Mrs. Etherege was shown up to our rooms as ten o' clock precisely the following morning. She was clearly surprised to find Inspector LeStrade there although she immediately thanked him for recommending Sherlock to her all those months ago. From her demeanour she was clearly unaware of her husband's departure.

“I have some good news”, Sherlock said, as he sat at his desk. Mrs. Etherege and I sat the other side while LeStrade stood somewhat awkwardly by the door. I wondered at this unusual arrangement – Sherlock always preferred the fireside chairs for his discussions – but said nothing. “Your husband is free.”

Her eyes lit up.

“I can go and take him home?” she asked.

“Not exactly”, Sherlock admitted. “I am afraid that your husband fell foul of a new crime syndicate which has recently extended its foul tentacles into our city. It is called 'Malleus Maleficarum'.”

She stared at him in confusion.

“It is Latin for 'hammer of the witches'”, I put in. “From a treatise against various forms of witchcraft, many centuries back.”

“Oh”, she said (I supposed that medieval treatises on witchcraft were probably not her thing).

“Indeed”, Sherlock said. “I am pleased to say that your husband is now in a safe place where that organization can no longer reach him. We have also obtained the identity of the leader of that foul organization and they will soon be under arrest.”

“But I received a message from Eddie only this morning”, she said, opening her bag.

The events of the next few seconds seemed to happen in slow motion. Mrs. Etherege withdrew not a note but a pearl-handled revolver and aimed it straight at Sherlock. I yelled a warning and threw myself hard against her just as the gun went off. There was an agonized cry from my friend and the sound of two more shots, which I only later registered as LeStrade's gun. Then silence.

Mrs. Etherege lay slumped in her chair but I ignored her, too concerned for my friend. The bullet had clearly been meant for his heart but my frantic efforts had pushed its trajectory to the left, although he was still bleeding. LeStrade was taking the precaution to make sure that the dratted woman had died – he had aimed for the head and, I later discovered, hit both times – before he came round and helped me lift Sherlock before carrying him to the couch. There was far, far too much blood – I had the untimely thought that Mrs. Hudson would not be best pleased - as I fought to try to staunch the flow. 

“John”, he gasped. “Did you....”

“She is dead”, I told him, while LeStrade whispered “ambulance” and ran from the room. “And I will _kill_ you if you die without telling me how you knew!”

“May not have to”, he gasped. Then his head fell back and he was unconscious as I fought on to try to stop the blood from leaving his body. I spared a final glare of hatred to the dead woman slouched in the chair before turning my full attentions back to the man I loved.

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I did not sleep that night even though the doctors at the hospital assured me early on that Sherlock would pull through. My desperate sideways surge had saved his life; had the bullet been a few inches to the other side he would have been dead. He would be recuperating for at least a month, they had told me, but he was out of danger.

The thought of a life without that blue-eyed genius in it was unthinkable. How _dare_ he go and try to die on me!

It was only the following morning that I recovered enough wits to remember that Sherlock had a family and they would probably have quite liked to have been informed of what had happened. Fortunately I had the address of Sherlock's sister Mrs. Thompson on me so I diverted via her house on my way back to Baker Street to collect some things for him. She thanked me and promised to let the rest of the family know. I later received a letter of thanks from Sir Edward and Lady Aelfrida as well as ones from Sherlock's military brother Carlyon and his cousin Mr. Garrick.

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My friend spent a further week in the hospital before he was ready to be discharged. Although perhaps it would be truer to say that after a week, several of the doctors and nurses were threatening to shoot him themselves if he was not removed; Sherlock did not make the best patient as I well knew, even if he always took advice from me as his doctor. 

Mr. Guilford Holmes had suggested that his brother spend some time at his hotel away from any pressures of work but Sherlock insisted that he missed the familiarity of Baker Street and wanted to go back there (in private he told me he feared being in the hotel would only encourage his family to visit him even more which would most definitely _not_ speed his recovery; he had already feigned being drugged to shorten a visit by his parents!). Two men carried him up to our rooms and laid him on the couch which I had moved as requested to the window for him. He looked deathly pale but he was alive, and that was all I cared about.

“I suppose you would like to know the details of the case”, he said, sounding almost guilty. “For your records.”

That did it. I had endured a night of terror and a week of sheer hell with him in the hospital and me alone in our bed, but now he was back his first worry was that I might be affected by not knowing about the damn case? I almost snarled as I strode across the room and grabbed him harshly by the shoulders, remembering slightly too late that that was close to where he had been shot. Judging from the shocked look on his face my reaction had more than surprised him.

“You bastard!” I yelled, careless of what our fellow tenants might overhear. “You almost _died_ on me! You think I care about a bloody case when I am about to lose the man I love?”

We stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity before I belatedly realized I was probably hurting him by holding him too tightly, let alone the fact that I was gushing Feelings like a demented geyser. I relaxed my grip and fell back onto the nearby chair, still shaking. Mercifully he saved me from further mortification by explaining how he had got from a pair of shoes to a major crime syndicate.

“Your discovery set up a whole new line of thought for me”, he explained. “You assumed infidelity; I assumed that a man's shoes need not be worn _by a man.”_

I stared at him in surprise.

“Mr. Edred Etherege and his wife were of similar builds and she was the mastermind behind the whole scheme. I did not seriously consider her until I visited the old clerk in Somersetshire and he told me about the approach made to him. I had been aware of the existence of 'Malleus Maleficarum' for some time but had not yet encountered any of their nefarious deeds. Also the choice of name – unusual in a male-dominated industry such as crime – seemed significant.”

“On the day of the robbery Mrs. Etherege drugs her husband's breakfast or morning drink and one of her confederates then hits him over the head – not too hard; she wants him alive to further confuse the police. He will be kept drugged until they want him to wake up. She then dresses in his clothes and goes to the bank where she probably feigns a headache to cover any differences in her actions. As usual there is a check on the extra money and she is able to dally and lock herself in. As it is on a timer delay mechanism she knows that she has several hours before they will be able to drill through the reinforced wall. Her confederates are able to smash through the previously weakened wall between her and the next building's basement, and it is that way that she and the money will shortly disappear.”

“The only weakness in the plan was that the bank might come round to the house to inform her of events before she can return to being Mrs. Etherege. Fortunately the exit hole takes only moments to open and she can leave her confederates to the removal of the money. When Mr. Pullow arrives at her house she is the poor, distraught wife receiving news of her trapped husband.”

“Yet she brought you in on the case”, I pointed out.

“She is a woman of no small self-confidence”, Sherlock said. “She felt that the evidence such as it was would lead nowhere, and had you not been so observant during your unannounced visit to her house it may well have done.”

I blushed.

“Meanwhile another confederate, a lady doubtless chosen for her difference in appearance to Mrs. Etherege, has undertaken a journey to the north-east of Scotland with a large chest which, no-one notices, has air-holes in it. She spends a week there at the end of which time Mr. Edred Etherege is deposited in a back-alley to be found by the Aberdeenshire Police. When he is returned to England he has no memory of anything.”

“All that from a pair of shoes!” I said admiringly.

“I could not have done it without you”, he said firmly. “Though I doubt that you will want to publish this case in the foreseeable future, most of the credit is undeniably yours. 

I smiled in gratitude and went to order some tea.

“John?” he said from behind me.

“Yes?” I said.

“I love you too.”

I managed to turn even redder.

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	22. Interlude:Jack The Ripper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1888\. The most infamous criminal in late Victorian London, and Sherlock's part in his capture.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

In selecting those of my cases that he thought appropriate to lay before his increasingly demanding public (some of whose letters made me fear for their writers' sanity!) John always followed certain rules. One such (although he never said it) was that he did not cover my mercifully few failures. This, the most infamous case that I was only tangentially involved in, was one that I regarded as such even though I did identify the killer, and it actually led to Words between us. It was doubly ironic that this was the last business before the foul name of 'Moriarty' would first cast its dark shadow over our lives, eventually coming within a hair's breadth of destroying us both.

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The latter half of 'Eighty-Eight was a difficult one for me personally as I had a run of three cases before this 'non-case' that all affected me personally in one way or another. First came the encounter with my twin Sherrinford – how he managed those disguises was beyond me – and his warnings as to what my immediate future held during the Jimmy Douglas case. I knew that despite what so many people thought about him from his writings, John knew full well that I was keeping something from him, and the respect he showed in accepting that made me love him even more if that were possible. He was far too good for me.

I was still dealing with the aftermath of this case when, on the last day of August, I read of the brutal killing of one Mary Ann Nicholls. In a city of over a million people such a thing was bound to happen far too often, and although this particular attack had been brutal I paid it as little heed as the newspapers, who noted that the victim had been both a prostitute and an alcoholic. 

Early September brought the second difficult case for me, that of my former love Lady Dundas and the divorce that she was seeking from her husband. I know even though he never said as much that John felt guilty over one aspect of this case, in that his encouraging me to investigate the dratted woman's excuse for a spouse led inadvertently to my discovering the truth about my lost son. The support that I received from my true love at that time – it nearly broke me. 

It was during this case that there was a second brutal East End killing, that of Annie Chapman. That too garnered little attention from the press, again most probably because the victim's background was similar to that of the earlier one. The only thing that I do recall from the time was the thoughtfulness of our friend Gregson, who later told me that some in the force had thought that they should consult me at this point but that he had demurred, knowing from John that I was under severe strain with the Dundas Case. My regard for the affable policeman only increased after that and I was fortunate that I was able to repay his great kindness later on in my life.

Three weeks passed and the Dundas Case was mercifully concluded, on my thirty-fourth birthday as it happened. But I had little time for rest as almost immediately the Etherege Case demanded my attention. On the last day of that month the East End killer struck again, twice this time. His victims were Elizabeth Stride and Catherine Eddowes, both women who had slipped to the bottom of society partly through circumstance and partly through flaws in their own characters. Gregson appeared at our apartments the very next day and apologetically asked if I would indeed look into matters to which I agreed (he had been commanded to ask for my help by his superiors, which I suspected showed just how serious the situation actually was).

My investigations were of course interrupted by the dramatic conclusion to the Etherege Case and my subsequent recovery from that vile woman's attempt to kill me. I owed John my life for his fast reactions had deflected that fatal bullet. It took some time for me to recover – I found it amusing that John was always a complete mother-hen at times like these although I do know (because everyone, even dear Mrs. Hudson, insisted on telling me!) that I made a terrible patient. Then again few of those in hospital are faced with their mother threatening to sit by their bedside and read them her terrible stories until they are better, something that can speed even the most sluggish recovery process! 

One Friday in early November - Guy Fawkes's Night as it happened – my investigations were complete and I asked Gregson to come round so that I could provide him with a name which, regretfully, I cannot state here. I shall however say that rumours linking Prince Albert Victor (the Prince of Wales's eldest son and second-in-line to the British Empire's throne, who died but a few years later) to the crimes were totally and vilely wrong. That noble gentleman suffered more than enough slurs following his untimely death just over three years later, from both revisionist historians and misguided people who thought the best way to defend the monarchy was to portray what a narrow escape the country had had from his potential misrule.

Unfortunately politics is a dirty game, in any organization. The reader will remember my efforts secured Gregson's recent promotion at the expense of the nephew of Chief-Inspector Gascoigne Brown who had saddled him with the Crooked Man case in an attempt to blight his chances. The chief-inspector retaliated by using his position on the Police Board to pressure those in charge to ignore the name that I had given Gregson, sneering that to accuse that person was madness itself. The unhappy consequence was that four days after the meeting with my friend there was a totally unnecessary fifth victim of the now infamous 'Jack The Ripper', Mary Jane Kelly. I would like to say that the Metropolitan Police Service actually did something about this sort of malfeasance and indeed they did – Mr. Brown was promoted to superintendent!

At least Gregson assured me the next day that the named man had been quietly secured and the attacks duly stopped, but the whole matter depressed me as I felt that I had failed. I remember that John got quite angry with me, telling me in no uncertain terms that this was a police failing and that I was not to blame. He was wonderful when roused and although I tried to argue back he would have none of it. I had to accept his decision and that was that.

I loved him so much!

John even offered to sleep on the couch in my bedroom rather than with me, in case he inadvertently injured my still recovering frame during the night. But I would have none of that; I wanted this man beside me and I knew that I felt not just wrong but incomplete when he was not there. When he staggered out of bed to go and spend a few minutes in his own bed every morning – we had to keep up appearances – I always felt cheated. Still, given the dark times that I had come through of late I should have been thanking God for having what I had with John. I was truly, truly content, and if perhaps, ever so occasionally, I heard a small voice at the back of my mind whispering about a certain river in Egypt, I ignored it.

Perhaps more than just occasionally.

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End file.
